Dear Trump,

To my good sir Donald Trump,

From the looks of things, you are aiming to be president. Maybe you're tired of being dirt rich and want the power of being president. Granted, having never watched your tv shows or followed how you do business, I don't know much about you. What I do know is that as a presidential candidate you have failed to make a good impression on me. Maybe you think only die-hard republicans are following what you say and do since it is the conventions that choose the party candidate and thus you are only speaking to them. Besides the fact that I find the primary system ridiculously broken, focusing for a year on one group of the American people is not a good thing to do.

Back to my point, if your idea of leadership is attacking our current president on his nationality and whether he went to college or not, then count me out. I see leadership as finding solutions to problems, not attacking current leaders. Thus far you have said nothing that strikes me more than a panderer to the Tea Party Republican right. Nor do I care if you have more money than Romney. How much money you have is not a measure for leadership either.

Of course, since all you have done in life is satisfy the shareholder, if that is how you see politics and leadership, then there is no chance that I will vote for you. Plus, there is the fact that when it comes to corporation and writing laws to protect the public that you probably can't be neutral. But maybe you can surprise me.

My advice however is to stop this nonsense and let someone with real ideas and leadership run.

No Title

Waking up, or maybe now asleep?
Not sure which, loathing the truth.
A sudden storm on a sunny day.
Swirling, swirling, swirling.
With a lone mariner finding his way.

Not sure if it is real. Fighting as if it is.
Not sure to turn left or right or to stay the course.
Concentrating on what looks to be the shore,
But ignoring the state of his water craft.

The woodwork, warped; holes in the hull
just a general state of disrepair.
Just trying to discern and survive.

But unsure.
Unsure of the sky which served as his muse,
The night stars, the glorious moon. Even the rising sun.
But now... he cannot bring himself to look up.
To look up and see things as they were.

Not that the sky has changed, or the storm different.
Storms have come and gone; this one no different,
But... lost has the mariner admiration in the guiding star.
To the mariner, all seems jaded, all seems different.

Like waking up from a dream not quite remembered
Or in the middle of a dream like reality. Unsure.
But view of the sky, of the stars, different.
Lacking something, not sure what, perhaps the same all along.

But the Mariner doesn't see that.
Looks up briefly, sighs, and focuses again on the horizon.
Hoping, hoping the sky will regain its wonder and awe.
while fighting against the storm, sea and wind.

The Gear

There was a little sad gear in the factory. He had once longed to be a bigger gear, to move important pieces of the machine and do his best to make the machine he inhabited function more efficiently.

But time passed, the work and training to become a bigger gear was strenuous, tiring. He was tired. More than tired, he soon began to doubt that he was important enough to dream such dreams, to work, to better himself. Surely there was a better gear out there than him for the position. Who was he to want to be something bigger?

And so one day he just grew up. He stopped doing his work, he stopped learning how to be a better gear. He just didn't see the point and didn't see in himself the capacity to be a grand and high gear.

But giving up didn't make him happy. Giving up on himself, precisely, caused his very soul to weep. But by then he didn't have the will to motivate himself. He lost the will, the motivation, the ambition. He didn't care if he ended working the trivial positions. He just didn't care.

And one day he passed for the factory. He saw his fellow gears grinding away. He saw they having as difficult, if not more difficult, time as he had. But they toiled away regardless. They worked, they slept less, they gave it their all. They didn't give up.

So what was so different between them and him? What did they have that he didn't? After all, he had striven and worked with them day after day. They had moments of despair, they had hard times. They weren't any better caliber of gear than he was. They were just like him, gears striving to be more than they are.

Maybe the only difference was the force of will? But the little gear looked and saw more than he thought he would. He realized that why were his difficulties and struggles any different than theirs? What gave him the right to give up on himself and to stop trying? His friends didn't. So why should he? Why was he so special to let his dreams fade and let circumstances overcome? He wasn't. He wasn't so special ti fail where others tread on.

And so the little gear began to take heart from that day, to not be selfish in his desires, and not let himself fail where others succeeded.

Reality

What is reality?
A concrete substance? An unchangeable fact?

Or merely a perception of one's mind eye to the world?
How oft has reality changed?

The reality of battle?
The reality of the possible?
The speed of a computer?

Or even the perception that you are right?
Or the opinion on how events in history folded out?

But as with the computer, the speed and graphics thereof
Reality can change in the blink of an eye.

The reality of what you know you thought to be true;
The perception of reality of how events passed.

But is reality really reality if it changes so easily?
Or maybe the definition we hold of reality is not really so.

Winds change, seas rise, friends come and go.
But the one thing that has ever held true for me,
though many a time denied,
the one constant that has been reality for me...

Is how much I am idiot,
and how idiocy is achieved each day
through new glorious and un-thought of means.

Wanderings

It's been said that that the worth of souls is great...
But if as the wind passes,
As the sun crosses the horizon,
As the days turn to weeks...

But if that goes on,
And you take no care of your own?
Or value yours less than the dust?

Then where is the worth if you don't see?
The worth of something intrinsic...

But if not valued,
If not looked after,
Then where is the worth?

Where is the shine and the pride of something looked after?
When all there is are tears?
When it is considered as rubbish,
Then all you see, regardless the value others hold,
is rubbish.

Then how can the worth of rubbish augment?