Musicians: The jesters of our society

Musicians: The jesters of our society

For those of you who need Inspiration to liberate yourselves:

“The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.”  Friedrich Nietzsche

Main stream musicians are modern-day jesters. Nothing more.

Do you think anyone envied the jester and his duty to embarrass himself? They were forced to look like idiots and act foolishly for laughs.

So why are so many people idolizing these “stars”? Yeah, they’re entertaining, but not in a respectable sense. At what point do we draw the line between entertainment and our own self respect?

Your life is worth so much more than what you’ve been made to believe. So break free from the cycle. Break free from the chains of conformity and reunite yourself with your true identity. Your individuality is what makes you beautiful, so embrace it.

Donald Trump: The Politician You Don’t Remember Asking For

Donald Trump: The Politician You Don’t Remember Asking For

There’s one question that seems to be on everyone’s mind: “Who invited Donald Trump?”

The answer is you.

I know it’s probably not what you wanted to hear — especially if you found this article in hopes of adding more fuel to your fire. Regardless of the reason, the fact remains the same: Americans wanted an honest politician — they got one.

Continue reading “Donald Trump: The Politician You Don’t Remember Asking For”

Out of Ink

Out of Ink

I sit here alone holding a dying pen — nearly void of ink. I’ve been searching persistently for a blank sheet of paper to write down my thoughts. The last page, I filled with my deepest secrets and darkest emotions. I polluted its lines with anger and spiteful thoughts. Before I knew it, the entire page was black. Not one word legible. Not one word it’s own. I cluttered the page with so much emotion and fear, I had no space left to write down what was important. I ruined a perfectly good sheet of paper — forever darkened by the black ink of my pen. All that time and effort put in to something and I have nothing to show for it in the end. So I continue to search for a paper or pad. Something to write on. And now that my pen’s almost dried up, I’ll be careful not to make the same mistake twice.


The filthy creature is rendering me speechless again — swallowing my words before they can make an escape. It’s infectious bite is causing my throat to swell making it hard to breathe. I can feel its grip tightening — its claws tearing beneath a new layer of skin with every pulsating ‘thump’ in my chest. My vision is slowly fading to black, the venom found its way to my heart.

I’m begging it to stop. I’m begging it for death. It doesn’t understand me.

It’s turning me — altering my biological being. Changing my molecular build — a mutation of my DNA. The change is complete.

My eyes, no longer my own. Poor unfortunate soul in my sites. My motives are clear. Filled with rage and emotion, I spew an infectious toxic acid towards my victim. One shot. That’s all it took. Poor soul. She begins to turn. But her beast is not like mine. Her beast is not like me. Good. Pure. Innocent.

What have I done?