Poetry Showcase from Pasithea Chan

grayscaled photography of person's hand spreading sand

Photo from Kunji Parekh (unsplash)

Hey, I can manage!

I tried keeping up walking with him
but the bigger steps I made
the faster he went!

I tumbled and fell
I even scratched my knees.
He didn’t stop or even blink!

So I picked myself up
patted my pants from the dust
held my head high and walked.

Okay so you don’t care I get it.
Two can play a game!
Am doing it my way.

You used to make me wait
for you to turn hearts around
to grow a conscience in some
and to make things better.

You were able to take things from me
because I let you but not anymore.
I am not your toy, let’s get that straight!

I will take from you what I need.
I too won’t blink or look back.
Thank you for showing me that.

Today we walk side by side
on a road enough for more than two!
Our shoulders almost touch.

He gave me a smirk
I tapped him on his back
and said, hey Time guess what?

I don’t care anymore
about keeping up with you.
I can manage.
 
Author's Notes:

Author’s Notes: This piece is an imaginary scenario between the author and time... who keeps on running and the author keeps on chasing him...but she reaches a point when she realizes it's pointless and decides to do things her way her pace...because the world doesn't stop for sadness or happiness... because hearts don't change over time... because things don't get better in time... because it is what is.... if it's meant to be it'll be.


Trouble Me Not

Trouble me not with your worries
for your shallowness speaks to my darkness 
a credence that shrieks: evil is faithless.
 
Trouble me not with your fears
for a bloody moon of leers
lights my night like candlesticks.
 

Trouble me not with your hurts
for I couldn’t care less for what happens
next, to you or what part of you breaks.
 
Trouble me not with your beliefs
for you are a body of lies that belongs
to hell with all souls this reckless.
 
Trouble me not with your quarrels 
for your bullshit trembles under values
so shallow entangling you in misfortunes.
 

Trouble me not for you shall feed hell’s
appetite for troubled dark souls like yours
wait for it, hell’s gonna wring your neck with woes.
 

Trouble me not for as your screams
leave your lungs reaching the heavens
I shall relish blowing away your ashes.
 
Author's Notes: Inspired by: " From the Mouths of Trouble" by fellow poet RolinSton.

Gripe's Pentacle

Life is a circle that begins with creation
but ends when destruction becomes a mission.
Life’s circle is centered in attention
with irony and chance for a diameter.
 
Every life has a purposeful circumference
enclosing motives and goals with reason and balance.
But every life covers an area of interests
that can be tangent or parallel to others.
 
Destruction breaks life’s circle with confusion.
It strikes  down one’s balance
by hitting one’s center with attention.
Once balance is gone destruction 
leaks motives and goals with aggression. 
Then the chain of hurt and blame brings isolation
sliding in personal gain’s hook to hang gripe’s pentacle.
 
Gripe is a trivial complaint that disrupts reflection.
It has greed on one corner to burn compassion,
radicalism on the right corner to end discussion,
ignorance on the left corner to begin occlusion,
pride on its south east corner to prevent redemption
and envy on its south west corner to deny gratification.
 
Wearing destruction’s pentacle of gripe is a decision
made by many thinking their life begins with others’ destruction.
Life is a circle deformed by destruction’s
gripe pentacle showing blame's face
with its bloody mouth and envious eyes.
 
Author's Notes: Although gripe was defined in this poem but it is also worth noting that in this poem it is an acronym of destruction's pentacle: Greed, Radicalism,  Ignorance,  Pride, and Envy.

Mind Your Mind

Mind your mind and you shall find
happiness, a kinder form of life
that blows good fortunes like a wind
born out of clarity during moments of strife.
 
Lose your mind and you shall find
bitterness, a harder form of life
that leaves you lost and blind
amidst chaos from rage’s hive
 
Train your mind and you shall find
excellence, a better way to lead a life
of bounties known to humankind
in stories where dreams dive!
 
Mind your mind even when opined
and you shall never go blind
nor know what it is like to hide
a heart that’s been declined
or a thought that’s been confined.
 
Mind your mind as though a rind
that protects you from a jack-knife.
A mind that is refined 
is all that you need in life.

Clouds and Castles

Welfare is a soul’s castle
built up in dreams’ clouds
only to be washed away
by life’s crashing waves.
 
Dreams are opaque clouds
combed by reality’s fingers
only to clash with thunders
that rain contradictions.
 
As the hail piles forming walls
one thinks he is hale behind doors.
Then truth’s sun shines
tearing our walls with woes.
 
Judgments make clouds 
condense pouring rains
of regrets in chains
that drag us with life’s waves.
 
Chances are the ebb and tides
that build or destroy our castles.
Time destroys us with our castles
tearing us down like our walls.
 
We tumble down with failures
humble down with lessons
mellow down with losses
and calm down with haplessness. 
 
We build walls of contradictions
to erect our castles of welfare.
We cement them with arbitrary acts
and tile them with sweet nothings.
 
Because we commercialized ourselves;
we don’t mind the wear and tear.
So we tear down and rebuild
today for tomorrow like a yesterday.
 
We forgot that those who live behind walls
tend to miss sunshines and meadows.
They keep building defenses
for wars that never come
until they die without living.
 

We pride ourselves
with castles in the air or seas
but forget that we are prisoners
of our devise dancing to our demise.
Souls were never made to live in walls.
Our bodies are enough walls.

Mama Told Me

Mama told me don’t tell all 
cause many are waiting for me
to fall just so they can gloat.
Turns out she was right after all.
 
But I told them how I stood tall
and they were there for me
at least that’s what I thought
until time sorted them all, money made its call.
 
Mama told me don’t tell all
cause no one would understand me
when I have nothing to give at
all and that’s how I lost them all.
 
I had to see them watch me fall
and hear them talk about me
calling me unreliable and that
hurt, because I never expected this at all.
 
Mama told me don’t tell all
but I did and it’s on me.
I regret telling but I can’t
change things so I accept it all.
 
Nobody visits and I don’t call.
I am all alone with what’s left of me
Who would’ve thought-
money keeps family around after all!
 
Mama told me don’t tell all
cause nobody cares for me
or how much I fought
because honesty doesn’t matter at all.
 
Depression and disappointment are all
I have to keep me company.
Desertion and neglect clog my throat
with hurt from being made to feel so small.
 
Mama told don’t tell all
because she knew they could hurt me
faking love that left me distraught
with a hurt so deep like a bottomless hole.
 
 
Author's Notes: The narrative in this poem is from my life and it was inspired by the following quote: "Sometimes the people closest to you betray you, and your home isn't a place you can be happy in anymore. It's hard but it's true". P.C. Cast

Blurred Clarity

If I told you, you need to sail the sea
to find thee and be able to see;
Would you say yes or disagree?
If I told you tragedy begets the clarity
to see what’s meant to be
would you call me crazy?
 
If I showed you hurt’s family
to protect you and me 
would you still see me?
Whoever said live with honesty
to find peace and harmony
forgot to highlight its tragedy.
 
All you get to say is if only
they’d spare me the misery
and let me face reality;
A reality starving for clarity
fed by choices made sincerely
starring those once trustworthy.
 
See trust chaps skies with maybe
and drenches life’s seas with irony
to dawn clarity that leaves both blurry.
You may think you sail aptly
but choices are tipsy boats swiftly
sailing amidst blurred clarity.
 
A clarity blurred by the company
you keep casting you in a tragicomedy
written by understanding’s bigotry!
To let the sea, meet the sky
to drop those flying high
to drown next to those passing by

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Pasithea Chan

 



 





New Poems from Pasithea Chan

Tap or Pap

Flip a coin hold and tap
to reveal love or loss’ pap
Fifty-fifty chance tap or pap.
Let the commotion begin!
Pride the ultion will flip
this coin to deeds that trip

Many walk into this trap
innocently to play tap or pap
but fail this trip and dab
their hearts to spin:
Loss, like a sip
and love like a nip.

Guilt is a strap
tying fault like crap
to silence like a slap.
Care is a cleft chin
bearing hurts pin
falling with a din
to silence's coin spin.

Surely this coin will stab.
words with silence so drab
bleeding minds that blab
with melodies so drab.
Tap or pap silence to dap
meaning from life’s map.

Surfacing

I look at its roads
of veins and arteries.
It flows like woes
with heartbeats.

It never sees
light living airtight.
Everything seems right.
Who’d think of plight?

Hurt is a knife that cuts
a skin letting blood ooze.
Air burns its surface
water deepens its gaps.

Suddenly an iris once
so clear gets washed with tears.
Only then we realize
clarity comes from tears.

Suddenly light tears
confidence with real fears.
Tears are fierce
teachers sharper than spears.

Wounds are lights
let in by reality’s shears
clearing destiny’s ways
in lessons about other beings.

Author's Notes:
Inspired by: “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”-Rumi.

Passion's Wheel

It takes a heart to ride the wheel
of passion and start
to reference position without taking part
or sides in stories that break one apart.

Empathy is the ability
to ride passion’s wheel aptly.
A journey reserved for the extraordinary
they say but on the contrary;
open to all humanity.

To be human is to feel
and understand what it means to keel.
But to empathize is to ride passion’s wheel.

It takes a heart to see
when eyes are built to look.
It takes a heart to journey
when legs are built to walk.

Passion’s wheel is a tricircular sphere
with eight portions for emotions
marked by color for qualities
and distance from the center for intensities.

Where annoyance, anger, and rage
form the first octant;
red denotes aggressiveness.

Where boredom, disgust, and loathing
form the second octant ;
berry denotes contempt.

Where pensiveness, sadness, and grief
form the third octant;
dark blue marks remorse.

Where distraction, surprise, and amazement
form the forth octant ;
light blue marks disapproval.

Where apprehension, fear, and terror
form the fifth octant;
light green marks awe.

Where acceptance, trust, and admiration
form the sixth octant;
dark green marks submission.

Where serenity, joy, and ecstasy
form the seventh octant;
yellow marks love.


Where interest, anticipation, and vigilance
form the eighth octant;
orange marks optimism.

Like passion’s tricircular hierarchy wheel
emotions in humans reveal
empathy, Alexithymia, or antipathy.

Hearts sort humans
as riders of empathy;
drifters of Alexithymia
and the walking dead of antipathy.

Those who see with their hearts
understand where others stand
and stood to be understood
are riders of empathy.

Those who are blind in their hearts
fail to understand where they stand
and run before understanding themselves
or letting others understand them
are drifters of Alexithymia.

But those who are blinded by their hearts
and refuse to understand where others stand
yet expect to be understood
are the walking dead of antipathy.

It takes a heart to sort humans
but it only takes a rider
to tell drifters from dead walkers
for only a heart sees
when the eyes look with ice
at compromise, demise and advice.

Author's Notes:
This poem reflects the definitions of empathy, alexithymia, and antipathy from the side of an empath with scientific connotations aligned with morality and humane values.


Magical Fail

Abracadabra I lift the veil to an epic fail
The cage is gone so is my reality’s scale.
I am running from my fears within my tale.
Surprise I found them grabbing me by the tail.

Outrun by motives I ail
under actions that wail:
Life breaks those seeking breaks to curtail
struggles running without brakes down a trail.

My fears are catching up but I’m so frail.
I lost my heart beneath hurt’s sail
Hiding behind others’ success like mail
stashed and forgotten like a folktale.

I am no magician just an escapist trying to bail
out of a life that’s been an epic fail.
Sad part is I am now stuck in my own jail
trying to get out before I kick the pail!

Inspired by : Steven Universe's song Escapism by theCrewnUniverse & Rebecca Sugar; link on youtube: https://youtu.be/lpVsF8e8NZM

Blueish Hues

Light fell on her book to light
night’s loneliness and show a night
lost to sadness over a love lost.
Love had fallen out of love.

Light fell on her love’s dying light.
Casting darkness behind branches casting
stars of lament with blues’ branches
hiding a castle of sorrows worth hiding.

Glowing blueish hues glowing
with hurt for whom she can’t be with
turn fires that light into fires
that burn hearts just like that.

Love is a fire curling hearts with love
like timbers curling under the fires of like.

Author's Notes:
The prompt is a blueish night with a girl holding a book to the light curling her toes. This piece is a shadow sonnet reflecting emotions I felt looking at that photo


Crimson Heart

Care runs through your blood
Red with sensitivity and comfort
Infused with admiration’s platelets
Musing companionship’s cells to
Sincerity and dedication that are enjoyed
Only by me your best friend.
Never did a heart look so red until I saw yours.

Author's Notes:

Genre : Acrostic Word Count 41

A Poetry Showcase by Pasithea Chan

Love and Poetry by Pasithea Chan

When an Oyster Chokes on its Pearls by Pasithea Chan

4 poems by Pasithea Chan : Daily Revelations, Empty Words, Skylark of the Dark, Aloof

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Pasithea Chan















A Poetry Showcase by Pasithea Chan

leafless tree in body of water during daytime

photo by Michael Held (unsplash)

When Silence Speaks

As I rest my tired chin on your hands
rest your soul to the pout of my lips.
Close your eyes and tilt your head
for my eyes shall watch over you.

Listen to my tormented soul
as I listen to your lost innocence.
We are drifters whose paths
have crossed on the desert of mishaps.

Your tattered clothes match my coat
both were withered by storms.
As the dust lingers to your hair
so do the sands in my eyelashes

I may not speak your language
but you speak to my heart
in ways more than humane
each time you caress my mane.

The trees are our walls
the skies our ceilings
and the nights our cloaks
We camp here under stars.


Our fears are one:
hearts that are blind.
Let your gentle nature
be your guide and I
your companion for life!


Magician's Ombre

He trumps with masculine beginnings
under Mercury’s will to command
Renegados: heart, mind, and soul

He is skill’s regal teacher
playing will’s red suit
against a black intellect.

His motive is untainted innocence
draping red passion and experience
unto humans’ conscious existence

He belts his waist- a divine bridge
for both worlds: spirit and human
manifesting desires into reality.

Eternity is his tiara shining
over elements of an alchemist table
fit for a banquet for three players.

Wearing mismatched red and white lilies
for slippers of majesty: good and evil
He leaves you plagued with creativity.

Drinking a cup of emotional fulfillment
filled with imagination and beauty.
He will dance you to productivity.

He eats from a pentacle of brilliance
molded for perfection, baked in patience-
to serve you excellence and practicality.

Armed with the sword of mental clarity
his judgments are sound and canny
with ideas so profound with relativity

He is master of illusion and duality
a shaman and a charlatan prodigy-
who’s game only for the witty!

Author's Notes:
Tarot cards have been associated with card games all over Europe mainly the 3 player game "Ombre" of Spanish origin- known as well as Renegado". This poem discusses the traits, personalities and behavior of the tarot card " the Magician" as part of a reading and the personality of the zodiac sign or person it is associated with.


Poetic Procreation

Emotions unsorted are ovum aborted.
Words unrecorded are sperms wasted.
Pieces of writing unshared left crumpled
are pieces of us neglected or distorted.

The mind releases its emotional ovum
to meet words’ sperms on ink.
A Fallopian hand etches them
unto a papyrus uterus.
There they grow and divide
into stanza or couplet cells.
They latch and feed
from imagination’s placenta.

Once their gestation is complete
satisfaction’s cervix expels them
as full grown separate manifestations
of their mother and father’s minds.
Passion is words' dedicated mother.
Style is words' proud father.

Poetry grown and born on papyrus
is born twice into creativity’s world.
Once when read by its poet
and again when it kicks its way
down the lips of its readers unto
their hearts, minds, and souls.

Once it is set on paper,
a poem leaves creases
in your conscience,
a taste in the back of your throat
for memories, colors, and emotions.
It bruises your senses with allure,
drains your frustrations with compassion’s
conjure and meaning so dejure.

Like paper, souls can be blank
until life, experience, desire,
loss, death, trial, and truth
fill them up in words and meaning.
We were all born blank
with a chance to be dank and swank.
So let your poems breed content in passion,
and set your dreams free.


Creative Flow

The mind said: I never said
it would be easy,
I only said
it would be worth it.

The heart replied I never said:
it would be hard
I only said
it would be a good start.

Listen you two, the eyes said:
because of you I can’t tell what’s what
for I only reflect what you two said
So where do you suggest I look?

So the soul said: I never said
you two get to judge.
I only said that you two say
what it means to me as I see it.

Night fell and all four said:
Creativity is a conversational flow
between a heart, mind and soul seeking to glow.
Where there is memory, a feeling must play
and a quill must dance and spill a heart's will.
Where there is a moral, a story must connect
a mind's philosophy and outlook with life’s brook.
So long as this conversation flows, creativity blows
a soul into the body of words leaving a poem a living
breathing, talking, and moving creation.


The Void and Wind

She pressed her ears to the ground-
to feel the vibratos of his words.
They tiptoed into her senses-
barefoot bleeding tact on facts.
Flustered with assumptions-
they trampled a mockingbird!

It raised its head unafraid-
gasping for its last breaths.
I won’t catch a cold- said the bird- from ice-
my soul is humanity’s hospice.
This is my soul with which you have toyed.

Circumstance is a variable clad-
that shrouds my heart an opus of closeness-
My life’s strives to reach justice.
I am not heartless-
But life taught me to use my heart less!
You need to see to understand.

From a distance everything seems grand!
I am not a canvas of an ogress-
to be painted void and heartless!
Your quill stabbed my heart like a cutlass!
Sometimes the mouth slays quicker than the hand!

A wingless muse is a mermaid-
that’s lost its tail to a pair of legs!
Unable to swim seeming more like humans-
she tries to speak but no words can express-
you took her by surprise, you were her friend!

All you saw was null and void!
Welcome to the void under the aegis-
you’ve created from earthly tethers.
You’ve raised me once from a mockingbird to muse.
So why can’t you stay beneath my wings-
my mystic oris and be my wind?

Author's Notes:
I am not heartless, it's just that life has taught me to use my heart less!

Love and Poetry by Pasithea Chan

When an Oyster Chokes on its Pearls by Pasithea Chan

4 poems by Pasithea Chan : Daily Revelations, Empty Words, Skylark of the Dark, Aloof

Poem by Pasithea Chan : Bruise of Ruse (inspired by Beth Hart)

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Pasithea Chan

Poem by Pasithea Chan : “A Stone that Hits Home”

Poetry from Fevers of the Mind Anthologies by Pasithea Chan

3 poems by Pasithea Chan : Fist in the Mist, Frozen Smiles & Melting Moons and Threading Stars

























Love and Poetry by Pasithea Chan

grayscale photography flower circlet on armless chair
from unpslash.com (Artsyvibes)

Love and Poetry

When trials stifle tomorrow's breaths

choking it with pain's wings; it ruffles

its feathers to push hope down cliffs.

There a soul drowns in its falls-

until she appears, pulling threads-

threaded with tin cans loaded with stones.



She beams like the sun swatting darkness-

and floats like a cloud without a sound.

She picks up souls cast like stones

that've forgotten they're not bones.



She's no angel or devil yet wards-

worry's crows and depression's-

hollows like joy leaping off the gallows.

With a gaze, she silences sorrows.



She is life's forceps turning corpses

into life forces filled with joys.

Her shadow is a long bow that fastens

love in the back of a scream that screens-

guilt from relief flowing in streams-

of cold tears of joy and hot flashes.



She kissed my eyes once, and put ice-

above my eyelids, making my lips-

wonder if there is anything under-

the sun that's hotter or sweeter.



No one knows where she comes or goes.

Because of her, my heart knows whose lips-

I've been dreaming of; because 

they tell me, he loves me as we share homes-

our hearts filled with tomorrow's hopes.

 my fairy and he my muse.

This is my story of love and poetry.



Author's Notes: Imagine if poetry was a woman cherished by her poet. Someone who brightens his/her life as she helps him write their love story. This is my story of love and poetry.


Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Pasithea Chan


When an Oyster Chokes on its Pearls by Pasithea Chan


4 poems by Pasithea Chan : Daily Revelations, Empty Words, Skylark of the Dark, Aloof


Poem by Pasithea Chan : Bruise of Ruse (inspired by Beth Hart)


A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Pasithea Chan


Poem by Pasithea Chan : “A Stone that Hits Home”



When an Oyster Chokes on its Pearls by Pasithea Chan

photo by Dagmara Dombrovska (unsplash)

When an Oyster Chokes on its Pearls

Everywhere I look, misery walks ahead in long lines labeled by needs. Depending on the level of frustration or violence I know which line it is. If it is one dominated by pleading old men, it’s either one for bread or cooking gas. If it’s one full of sarcastic young people cracking jokes about how low we have fallen, then it’s for coffee. But if it’s one full of bullies brandishing guns on helpless old men or a mother with children to cut through, then it’s for petrol.

My city has awakened the kraken on its shores. Its white and golden sands are now salty with tears and muddied with blood money. Even the asphalt beneath our shoes and tires is taking its last breath under the relentless sun waiting to die out into dust in the endless dark nights. When I walk around, I look at my people’s faces but I see none. Yesterday they had empty eyes, empty of hope and happiness today they have no faces and no eyes. They all look the same. Today my people have fear for eyes, aimlessness for a nose, and haplessness for a mouth. Every day, the hyperinflation comes from underneath them and pulls them under to smother their children’s squeals. We have houses but not homes, hospital buildings but not treatment or medication, schools without teachers or students, and utility companies without services. If you ask any Lebanese, what do we still have, they’ll tell you our political dynasties and their sheep. They are the untouchable sanctities and the red lines no one may cross. But if you ask me, I will tell you we have an oyster that’s being smothered by its own pearl.

See, oysters, make pearls when they are stressed as a coping mechanism. My country, the pearl of the Mediterranean, the oyster of the cradle of civilizations, and the beacon of literacy and culture is choking on its own pearls. What pearls am I talking about? It’s called the pearl of “ridiyna bil ham wil ham ma ridi fina” which literally translates : we have accepted the burden of mishaps but the burden of mishaps has rejected us. In my dialect that means we have exhausted all coping mechanisms to outsmart shortage, corruption, abuse, depletion of resources, explosions, endless wars, looting of our resources, and being treated as insignificant beings beneath what normal citizens deserve. So now, we are drowning and choking on our silence and our anesthetic solutions. The time of reckoning has come for us to pay for hoodwinking on the corrupt and keeping them in power because we fear one another. If you ask me, we are a house not a home, a land not a country because we chose to live by the rule : “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”. There is no love for country if there is no love for one another. There is no solidarity if there is no brotherhood because there is no trust. We say with our mouths what we negate with our hands and minds. Before we appoint someone we check what faith he follows, who his political backing is, and how well connected he is with regional countries. We don’t check if he has what it takes to sit, if he has something to bring to the table, and most importantly if he has the credibility and dedication it takes to die for his country if need be.

A few months back, a student from abroad who was doing research on the Lebanese social media’s relation mainly in the diaspora with the success of the Lebanese revolution. I surprised her when I said that there was no revolution, there was a movement, a temporal one, a slight awakening. Today my words are true because revolution requires a change from within to affect change into the outside. It’s like an infection that grows in a host wherein either the host develops immunity and grows stronger or dies spreading the infection to another who might be a healthy carrier. The problem today is my people have lots of words but very few actions. They have lots of reactions but no action plans. Like their politicians, they pass the blame ball like an opening free throw in a football match. We all know how bad things are and why they collapsed. At this stage, I couldn’t care less about who did what or who didn’t. We are sinking, burning crisp, starving and soon we will cease to be a country because all the young and able will leave this land for the old and helpless to be buried. I don’t know how long it will take my people to wake up although I pray that it will be before the place turns into a mass grave.

A sheep can’t herd a herd just as a wolf can only eat the sheep. You don’t have to be a sheep to find greener pastures nor a wolf to herd sheep. You need to be a shepherd to herd sheep, someone who knows when to use the stick and when to just whistle or gesture with his hand. Inside each one of us is a shepherd called common sense and survival instinct. These two instantly help us recognize who can genuinely bring something to the table to fix things to let us have a better grip and hold on the ground that’s slowly breaking into bits beneath our feet. Sadly, we shall all be sheep baa-baaing aimlessly to cameras herded like the sheep we are for the world to pity us and throw us some aid. The diaspora has lots of successful Lebanese strategists, thinkers, and people with integrity and love for this country but the sheep will only see the fears that run inside their mind. My people, worry is an abuse of imagination. It fails to create or solve anything because it destroys chance by petrifying you leaving you to rot while others use you as a stepping stone for more gain and power. Not until you give your backs to one another and forsake entrenched alliances with corrupt oligarchies will you ever find the light or a way off this doomsday train. We are not living in hell; hell is within each one of us because we chose this life by continuously doing things the same crooked ways and continuously choosing the same crooked people.

My country is an oyster choking on its own pearls because it closed up on itself thinking tomorrow is still there, a window for doing things differently even though we know we will never do them differently. We are the dead, not the martyrs of August four nor the Tlayle because they are now free to roam and see the truth living right next to the darkness, we choose to sink in. It’s hard not to feel sorry for ourselves in such a scenario but self-pity is all we have been doing for the past 20 years or so. Wake up! The Civil War ended in 1990 and it was a minor war compared to the major war we have within a war on ourselves to cleanse ourselves from blood money, corruption, and the endless lies we keep telling the world about how we’ve changed!!

Sincerely,

Pasithea

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Pasithea Chan

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