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Thoughts while contemplating life during a short episode of autistic burnout.

They bowed their heads and prayed to their god. And he was made of garbage and oil, lies and ignorance, bombs and bullets, suffering and decay.

This god above all others was called America.

Then the sky split open, and America's angels rained down upon the unwanted, the weak, and killed them all with guns they called peace.

The people rejoiced and danced upon the hills of corpses. They ate the flesh of the dead and called it justice.

Lucifer looked upon the carnage and wept. And as he watched the horror, he held Lilith close and asked "why must they worship such evil?" Lilith replied "they fear difference."

I wrote this poem for fun (and because I hate the current state of america) I would love some constructive criticism

they raise you somewhere
between quiet complacency
and revolutionary rage
and hope you choose wisely one day

these shoes are very big
they might be clown shoes
my mouth sewn shut
between quiet rage and no agency

then disapprove of you
and your quiet despair
but you had everything
i had more than i could stomach

when you meet them again
even smaller than last time
their childish tearful eyes
asking you are we free yet?

what if
the angel came
as a mushroom
or divorce
a disease or a despair
what if it kissed your head
so impossibly pale
you forget how to breathe
for a moment
for the lifetime of an empire
and then remember again

I'm not much a poet or a writer. I struggle with Depression and just looked for a Way to get my feelings about the Up and Downs out. Feel free to criticise or whatever. (This is my alt Account so there is not much activity)

Bluebirds flit about the garden as I watch
a moment pass in time as I cry
They flit about and sing a song for me
keep company as I sit alone and stare

"What is it like to fly?" I ask the bluebirds
yet ne'er an answer do they ever give
"Stay a moment please?" I ask the bluebirds
yet ne'er a one does ever stay for me

They mustn't understand me, thinks I
as the bluebirds carry on
That's right, they cannot answer so
and yet the bluebirds call

Rage within boils over like Vesuvius
as the bluebirds mock me still
"Answer, damn you!" I do to them so shout
yet still no answer is their's given

A treat! A treat will liken them to me!
I think as I brandish then some bread
Yet eat they do and no answer still is their's
as they mock my gift with silent pecks

Will I never be free? Shall I perish here then?
I think as the songbirds sing their song
"You mock me still, just l