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Recently I visited the S-21 prison and the Killing Fields in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. It was disturbing and gruesome and gut wrenching to see all of the destruction that humankind can do to each other. The problem is that we often don’t seem to learn from our mistakes, no matter how grievous they be. Here’s to hope for a better future and to never repeat the same mistakes.

America is great. It never stopped being great. The only problem was that people got caught up in the orange whirlwind of hate that is Donald Trump.

Your sister, always.

I met you in our Prosperous times, people Gathered to learn, with Open minds, and we shared our knowledge. You were kind, and I Thought you could be Trusted.   I found you in our Troubled times, just Lazing about. As if you could not See Or Hear The shifting of the cameras and the speech, in our direction. I wondered, were you just camera shy? It wasn’t long before I learned The truth.   I found you when our Luck ran out, shaking With fear. Then I understood, You were Scared.

Somewhere a brass bell laments, its tuneless tongue tolling the folly of another bureaucratic chess match,  as citizen’s sign up to learn of red glory. Somewhere a statesman reads by the light of an explosion.   That somewhere men become stone, names etched in metal, their only form of identification. While somewhere this privilege is revoked, an men must rest together. The ground rejects them.   Somewhere there is a child, emaciated, with fingers that deftly pick apart the dangerous workings of batteries and bombs. They’re paid in unsanitary conditions, and discarded scraps.   Somewhere a mother clings to the unmoving body of her child, tired of cursing the microscopic thieves that silently siphon health every 4th second. Somewhere they’re tired of the silent screaming.   Somewhere earthquakes rumble within vacant stomachs, and shatter islands on grander scales. It is rouge as violence. Angry storms turns  serene waters into all consuming floods, another number in the inconvenient truth.   Somewhere the defiant converse with a gun, hushed, to truth no longer be Assange. Discrimination. The world hides their letters and buries their voices with dirt, and  grass, and stone. How to make a name?   And here we are allowed ignorance for a while longer, yet trapped by this ignorance we are not free. While obesity far more than quenches hunger, rotund, Elsewhere the world suffers clean stomachs-   where naiveté breeds death, where names become numbers, and countries dance to the tune of the wealthiest man.– Elsewhere hatred nurtures division which bears armed nations and revolution, terrorism. A controlled media.    Hanging from frayed black ropes reside the dying voices. And it is here clothing pretentious pumps in overpriced stores, that uncontrolled voices, in newspapers, live, because elsewhere they are silenced before their first breath,   becoming another history book statistic, here. The world is materialistic, two-faced, and at war with itself. To make a career of the truth is to stain a white sheet,   Red tears run the ink.

I caught this bug today and can’t figure out what it is! Can anyone tell me?

I wonder why more people don’t know about this tradition?

(Made with real nuts: verified by squirrels)