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Judgment Day The time has begun Judgement day is coming The congress has voted The president Has not vetoed The people have judged Today and the days come Are the dark days The lonely days

Fuck The Free World Chapter 1 It seems that the most interesting people in #life are the crazy ones. Everyone in Johnston, Michigan, could agree that Jim Harding was a crazy one - a misfit among outcasts. He was at the young, dapper age of sixteen, and had always caused some sort of trouble in town. You see, he came from a poverty-stricken section of town, and naturally he had turned to what he knew best: thievery. His thievery tactics had come as a shock at first, for Jim was not very gifted in many things. It was just a tingling feeling - a sensation that nobody could resist Now don't think lowly of him, dear child. Jim was an honest, hardworking boy. He didn't want to steal, but in his situation, survival and worrying about when and where the next meal come from was everything to him. Johnston was an interesting town filled with interesting people, but once again it was an American town troubled by greed and turmoil. The city was split in the middle: the rich and the poor, with the middle class watching over them, trying to control the greed and anger. Jim awoke one September morning to a cool chill coming from his bedside window. He awoke slowly, rising out of bed, stiff with a hard-on, as the lasting twilight of summer slowly came to an irreverent end. Jim coughed once, then twice, then went into the bathroom, and released his bladder - all the way until his erection came to a close. Flushing the toilet, he quietly walked downstairs, so to not disturb his mother and father, and little brother, John As he walked, he noticed the somber sightings: hand-me-downs laying about the dirt strewn floors; tasteless furniture ratted out by months of abuse and decay. Downstairs, he walked to the kitchen, to get a breakfast bar. Before getting the bar, he caught his reflection on a pane of glass. If you saw Jim on the street you would say he was a handsome son of a bitch: he had short black hair, hazel eyes, and an ebony complexion. He also had a tall, lanky frame that was always clad in tasteless, shabby clothing. He got the breakfast bar, opened it, and chewed it with hesitance. Letting the old, dry bar crawl down his throat, Jim disposed of the wrapper, and went back upstairs to shower, brush his teeth and get dressed. When Jim was done with all of that, his family was already up and about: his mother was preparing breakfast; his father was scurrying about, looking for his tie; and John was getting his stuff ready for school. Now clad in clothes, Jim walked downstairs, with his backpack slung over his shoulder. When Jim was down there, his mother smiled at him. She was beautiful, his mother: she had long black hair, hazel eyes, and an ebony complexion. She also had a short, busty figure that was always clad in shabby clothing. "Hello, mom" said he, giving a nod, and a smile. "Ah, Jim," said she. Won't you sit down, please?" Jim sniffed the air, the thick aroma of bacon and eggs filling his nostrils; he licked his lips greedily; but he knew he could not accept his Mother's offer. He slowly shook his head. "Have to run to school," he murmured. "Don't want to be late, you know." "Understood. Run along." Jim gave his mother a curt wink, and prepared to walk out the door, only to be stopped by a cold, swift hand. He turned around, the hand flying off of him, seeing his father. "Hello, father," said Jim, grimacing under his fathers glare. Jim's father was a hard man to get along with: he was cold; he was foul-tempered; and he was sadistic. He had short black hair, eyes blacker than night, and an ebony complexion. He also had a tall, bulky figure that was always clad in rugged, dirty clothing. "Where the hell do you think you're going, boy?" asked his father. "Ain't you gonna say bye before you leave." "Sorry, sir." Jim shivered. "I don't have half a mind to think before I do." Jim thought this was all bullshit, but he knew well to not anger his father, and just agree with what he says. "Good," said his father. "Well, head on to school now, and teach them rich bastards that the Hardings' know it all!" His father finished this off with a bellow, and a laugh, before going off, back upstairs. "Bye, mother," said Jim. "Bye, honey," said his mother. Before leaving, Jim yelled bye to John, and walked out the door... Outside was nothing. Outside was dangerous. There were shacks and slums; drunks and bums; drug addicts and homeless people; it was all so poverty like that most judged the scenery with a blind eye before seeing it. The air was chilly, not cold. The sun was warm, not hot. Jim walked among the lonely and broken hearted, as if he had something they didn't: the key to happiness. Yet, he was young and full of joy; nothing could break him; and nothing could make him; nothing is more powerful than the human spirit. He had a steady stride, bouncing up and down, different than the usual, constant slouching from everybody else. Through most of Jim's walk, he noticed a police car slowly following him. Jim stopped in his tracts, and glared into the police car: inside was one Caucasian officer, looking at him with the most peculiar look; it was the look of the judgmental. The officer rolled down his windows. Jim stepped closer to the police car. The officer got out of the car, slamming the door with defiance. As he walked closer and closer to Jim, there was silence in the air. "Can I help you with something, officer?" said Jim. The officer held his hand on his belt, his fingers beautifully stroking the gun "Why you walkin' out here boy?" beamed the officer, coming face-to-face with Jim. Jim became very uncomfortable, but he knew not to run. "I was walking to school," he said. "I was just on my way before you-" "I talk, you listen." Jim nodded slowly, peering around from the corners of his eyes, seeing passerby's staring at the two of them. "Officer, if I may ask why are you following me. I did nothing wrong, sir. You're going to make me late for school." Jim became so flustered that he lightly pushed the officer back, and made a run for it. But, alas, the officer was quicker than him, for he grabbed a strong hold of Jim's arm - almost enough to break it - and pulled him back, swinging him around. Jim yelled out in utter pain, feeling the pain of the tug. The officer pushed Jim onto the car, holding his face to the window. Jim tried to struggle out of it, but nothing worked. "You know," said the officer," I hate damn darkies like you, and fucking Uncle Tom's that fraternize with you niggers. I wish everyone of you niggers were wiped off the planet of the earth!" Jim's heart skipped a beat, feeling the pain and anger of that word - the word that is frowned upon in today's society - the word that brings back more than two-hundred years of racism and suffering. The officer took his gun out from his holster, and placed it on the back of Jim's head, his finger on the trigger. "Just think, boy," said the officer. "One trick of the finger, and you're dead. Another nigger down. A joy to the world!" Jim began to cry, tears slowly streaming down his face, finding it hard to breathe. "I like those tears, boy. Shows you're scared of the Dominant Race - the White Race." As Jim continued to cry, an intercom came from the Officers walkie talkie, talking about some hit and run ten streets over. The officer cursed, releasing his hand from Jim's head, putting his gun back in its holster. "You're lucky today, nigger," he said. "But there's always tomorrow, and the next day, and the next." The officer laughed. "I can kill you darkies all damn day; it's Gods will." He laughed some more, and went into his car, and drove away, Jim's feelings of anger and hate following after him, for later demons.

This Is My Story Nobody understands the thoughts I think or the air I breathe; I'm insane and I know that. Writing helped me be me. Before writing I was always that kid with his head held down, still am kind've; but it really helped me cope with everyday #life and struggles, and come out of my shell in a odd, serene way. I want to change the world. All I want to be is a writer. It's the only dream I dream of. If I do, a strong tide will come: I will be controversial; society will label me insane; society will label me crazy; but I'm a person for the people. I want human rights- civil rights for all people. I believe in gay rights; I believe in abortion rights. If you don't like it, you can blog about it; you will know my name. I am a messenger of people. This is my story. Good day.

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