Shared Strength

They roam the streets and the woods, From city square to country corner, In Land Rover to the lifted 4x4, Dressed to fit in with the crowd— From Lululemon sheik to Carhartt tan, A look you see that fits the need Of a group that values uniformity. With a promise of acceptance. If you bury deep your novel self, Just grab a hold and tow the rope, And be invisible with like kind, On the streets of Halloween Town— A place you can be yourself, If you dare to scorn the rest And face their mocking and jest. Alienation comes to the unique, Who push away the masses, Or grab a group and adjust a look, Get mad when they are mad, Be glad when they are glad, Only feel sad when you are alone, On the streets of Halloween Town— From pride’s ticker tape parades To off-road’s muddy wheel wells, From suburbia’s parent pickup To downtown’s office towers— We fit the hand with a glove, Pretending it’s a perfect fit, Leaving hidden the truest you With the coverings of skin, And b...

I wake with a dollar in my head. Eyes foggy in the dark morning, The things to get done today To stand a rung above the rest. A relentless grind with no end— At least, no end until the End. To chase a more efficient way, And solve the changing riddle. It works, of sorts, if you are steady, A willing man with opportunity. If you work and truly sacrifice Kin and friend along the path, Then you, like me, can stand apart From the throngs of the masses Who true freedom never know, At the feed bowl of their master. You will see them fail in time And write it off as superiority— They were never made to make it. Count them among the cast out, The worthless and downtrodden Who will always need a master. Give them a little assistance, Give them their monthly pill— Enough to keep them surviving, Enough to keep them playing As the money falls in your funnel. Their life is like a rental car: Powerless and lacking options, Always a new master at the wheel. Many will try...

A great and grand society Shall be known for equity. From the city's main road To the farm's croaking toad, It shall serve all you see— From you, to you, to you, to Me. You will own your property; That is your right to be. If you save and do without, You too can make the banker pout. But as you sit back and relax, Don't forget about me—your tax. For property's not yours, you see; It truly belongs to society. We hire for the greater good, People who shall serve the brood— Friendly people who mean well, But certainly can put you through hell. But stay in line, and you will see That you can use your property. Just pay the piper the price, As we decide what feels nice— To fund new additions and pensions, To rule—I mean serve—the legions. And they shall become the class With the largest voting splash. Pay rising from money well-known— Just pay if you would keep your home. Then pay the price—it is nice, To fund all that which we deem suffice. We...

The day was crisp. The season was early spring, and the sun was shining in a way it only can during that specific time of year. I sat for hours along the boulder-filled bank of the Skagit River, just watching the water flow past. Across the way, a bald eagle perched on the top of a broken-off tree. The quiet peace stood in stark contrast to my bustling morning of packages, humming conveyor belts, and the sound of my own voice yelling directions as we raced against time. To race against time seemed silly now, as I looked out at this mighty river—its banks perfectly crafted over millions of years, long before the silly distractions of man. There are some who sit alone for the peace of being alone, and there are some who sit alone because they are alone. To be the latter is to know true despair: to stare out at a magical river and have it reflect back loneliness. She runs big, strong, and united; in contrast, I sit along her banks—insignificant, as others have for centuries. In the cloc...

Who is the author of my rebellion? The source of my foolish follies? Like a mega pastor on a jet, I worship the same sinister god. Mesmerized by status and station— A seat perched atop the masses, Supported by their basic survival, Their quest for a better tomorrow, And the dream that is promised: A spot on higher, firmer ground While the water relentlessly climbs. As the wealthy sit in rooms of ladders, Promising, in death, to finally give. I grew up with the faults of Boomers, As they lived for today instead of saved. They marched in drug-fueled protests, Only to see their leaders cash out. As the far-out kids redirected course— Jobs sent abroad in consumption's name, Currency debased to print a better today, Politicians stealing from babies unborn To feed allies and fatten themselves. No resource, just a survival of sorts In a world that plays follow-the-leader With eyes only for which others have. Now we stand, a powerless debtor stock— The children who...

I close my eyes—deep and heavy— Searching for some inspiration, Perhaps for calm reassurance In a world that perfectly corrupts All that I wish to keep pure. I write for peace on a simple pad, To combat the inward strife with words, With no concern for preference or prose. The words clarify the uncertainty; They chase away worry and doubt— A true friend just there to listen, Prodding me along each blue line. It comes from a place unknown— First like honey, later like syrup— Silencing an inner narrative, Ushering in a peace seldom known. But now, you wish to monetize me, To write a word for money— Like I do my time and energy, My body and my soul, like a sheep. Hasn’t this machine robbed enough? Like a pack of wolves, they circle, Forcing you to run faster, ever faster, To chase them to another's home, So you can survive, and possibly thrive. But “enough” is an elusive shapeshifter. Society’s perfect plan cracking at the seams. They teach us to argue the ir...

What is it to know? A surety, a conviction— Knowledge so certain That it radiates distrust. Who are we to know? So full of failure, Puffed up and proud Until we hit the ground. Why are we to know? To be numbered right, Safety in a crowd, Hidden in plain sight. How are we to know? A humbled naivety, A distant path alone Where silence speaks. Nicholas Campos ~ May 2025

The needles, tests, and pills, The scans, whispers, and waiting— And waiting. For results, no, rather for hope— That the battalion will hold And take back land lost, Or perhaps just be steady, Ever waiting. The world spins around me, Like living in a snow globe In a store window. People pass by, simply— Laughing and carefree, In a world not meant for me. I sit and watch in melancholy, Wishing for my normal day— In waiting. They visit—those that care, And can handle the awkward Hospital smells and the unknown. A respite for healing, Or final bow to the Maker. They sit in kind, subtle distraction, As they handle human porcelain— Delicate and fragile. Worry hidden poorly in their gaze Sits waiting. Soon alone once more, Longing for the normalcy of old, I sit silently, staring at stark walls. To be alone—truly alone— Is to find a prayer. Not superficial or religious, But from soul to its Maker. With no answer found—just comfort, Temporary comfort. Lone wa...