CHOSEN ONES

Anyone who believes their political party is the "Good" one, the "White Hat", the "Savior Party", the "RIGHTEOUS PARTY", the "INTELLIGENT PARTY", the "ENLIGHTENED ONES", the party who will SAVE THE WORLD... is nothing less than...

For The Grace Of God

"Judging" isn't done by whoever is innocent or righteous. It is done by whoever feels like judging. And whatever they use to judge about is interchangeable, pretty much anything at all can be used. Was your dress too long, too short, too striped, too loose, too tight, too cheap, too expensive... was your hair too messy, too neat, too coiffed... was your suit too big, too small, too cheap, too expensive, too dark, too shiny, too old, too tailored... your teeth are too dirty, too white, too crooked, too perfect... your bank account is too big, too small... your car is too crappy, too expensive, too old, too nice... your beliefs are too religious, not religious enough... your job, your spouse, your kids, your house, your pets, your shoes, your wallet, your purse, your skin is too black, too white... too fat, too skinny...  too short, too tall...  too punk, too retro, too hippy, too metal, too conservative... too masculine, too feminine, too androgynous... too Left, too Right... too ambitious, too dreamy... too academic, too jock... too conforming, too rebellious... too young, too old...  
 It's all the SAME. Judgment is judgment, no matter who, what, or why.

Countenance

Metatron, pray be kind; I am weary and falling behind.
These earthly shoes I so did choose;
tofore I went, up off knees bent,
shoulders squared, the Dark beware!

Silver shortsword swinging at my side
in synchronicity with my stride,
poised and ready to stand for life, ne'er a scintilla of fear for strife,
aver Heaven's army behind my knife.

This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word.

This heart not so brave as resolute, courage was an absolute;
No trepidation on my nape, nor uncertainty to lay in wait.
The road was cobblestoned with truth,
each brick inlaid behest to move in patent exhortation;
not in need of explanation.

Imperceptibly the way turning slowly with each day
from the solid, even ground, into something more or less profound.
Steeper and steeper yet, cobbles loose and slippery wet;
here a wall straight up to scale; now a chasm of a vale.

Wilderness around my head, pays no heed per hap I'm dead.
Strain my eyes to find a trail, blazes have all long past failed.
Compass now my dearest friend, guides me as I wind and wend; 
thank you Metatron, for this, an onliest and precious gift.

The shortsword silver at my waist is heavy and its blade oft scrapes
at my own flesh while forth it swings.
I might trade it for a pair of wings
to soar above this baleful trek, and find a hidden place to rest,
or rocket off into the sky where angels do not care to fly,
and carry off away from here my very heart, my young so dear.
To anger, no, to rage, I'm stirred, to be inadequate as shelter
for the one whose charge I'm called, against this mortal caterwaul!
I loathe to see his feet are sore, his crown unshielded, spirit torn;
Just how and what, how much to guide, and when to know to step aside?

This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word.

Dear Metatron have mercy still
when on your book you work your quill:
my given name if your hand writes, pray see me in a friendly light.
Forgive my frail and human form,
not always strong against the storms.
I fell and faltered, on knees and hands,
at times my legs refused to stand.

Such beasts you sent to challenge me, to hone my foil mastery.
Not every one I recognized; my shame that I was hypnotized.
And avalanches, hail and mire! Chasing me from wrong and dire
shortcut paths that I desired to use instead of frost and fire.
Grateful is my beating heart for gracious wisdom you impart
to this unworthy little soul, battered, torn and unconsoled.

This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.

But if I may have one request, to find a cool, soft place to rest.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word;
continue on this quest I will. And pray for mercy with thy quill. 

~M.Black

Bullies, Cliff Notes

If you want to learn about the dynamics of bullying, all you need to do is read internet threads. Look how such a huge number of people have no qualms about speaking to others in an incredibly disrespectful, arrogant way. That's what is really inside them. So where are all these people in real life? They're right in front of you. If you're a man, they'll edit themselves more. If you're a tall man,... or if you appear strong or tough,or powerful to them, they'll act as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouth. You may never see it, or only catch glimpses. If you're a tall, strong, powerful man who has shown a hint of kindness and integrity, you are now on the hit list, because the fear factor has been lowered. You will probably not hit back, or at least not hard enough to cause real damage. Bullies align themselves with whoever they think has power, and try to lord over whoever they think they can get away with without getting caught, or getting serious consequences. That's why they always go after the kid or person who seems to have few friends, or who is alone, or who looks small or weak. It's an animal urge, it has nothing to do with logic, IQ, or experience.
If you are a small person who gets a lot of disrespect, here's an experiment for you; walk around in the places where people treat you with disrespect with some kind of large tool, like a sawzall, or a hammer drill, something that looks powerful and heavy, but carry it nonchalantly like it's part of your regular day to day routine. And watch the difference. Watch closely, sometimes it's subtle, but you will probably get a kick out of it. 
Peace out, and Keep Your Eye On The Golden