Dear Diary,

The eve of the birth; On the back-burner of a bottomless kettle
I understand my blundered hands fear the monotonous schedule. .
That lies ahead, inside. . I know I'm rendered the worst of kids
But, I can't help to think that as a whole our agenda's conservative
"Probabilities" and "Perhaps," seems the Fascists' fate had hit us
As the aforementioned "P's" arose, we would fabricate statistics
I thought it was over; lying inside, in the most collossal of oceans
Were hearts sewn to sleeves; alongside my bottled emotions
Give me a reason to live; philosophy: I'd uproot and start on one
I wouldn't mind the media claiming I was in pursuit of martyrdumb
After all, we were dwelling in that white & hollowed, rented van. .
&, according to them, I should appear a contrite, apologetic man
Innovative "men," who do their best to decompose existant sections. .
Of history, which would likely do me just & expose the misconceptions
America, when you read this; I lie here an impaled but fistful seed:
An eighteen year old samaritan, who has been jailed on Christmas Eve

My Regards to "the Victims,"
LBM

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