Words
Words
I dont have the words,
I never have.
I dont have the words of leaders,
I dont have the kind of words that hold power.
I dont have the words to tell people that fighting is useless.
War is futile but my words are pointless.
I dont have the words to teach man that war and violence does nothing.
I dont have the words to show them the horrors and destruction they cause
When they could just sit down and talk because
They have the words.
And even if I were given a platform,
To yell,
And scream;
These cowards would still go to war.
And I’d make a fool of myself because
I dont have the words.
Even if you were to extract the idea from my brain:
There’d never be enough words that can be formulated from any lexicon to even begin to understand the sentiment because:
I dont have the words.
I dont have the words to show my outrage at people’s disregard of their planet.
I dont have the words to scold the past generations for making us clean up their mess.
I dont have the words to show what their greed and negligence  has done to their home.
I don’t have the words to show people how they are condemning their children with their oversight of their planet.
Even if there was a live stream, where I could rant and cry at the world;
They’d still destroy their only home with overwhelming apathy.
And I’d make a fool of myself because
I dont have the words.
It frustrates me every day that 
I dont have the words.
I don’t have the words to show people how little their leaders care about them.
I don’t have the words to teach people how badly the bigotry can affect people. 
I don’t have the words to persuade people to be even just a little nicer. I don’t have the words to teach people why “all lives matter” inherently negates “black lives matter”.
I don’t have the words to explain why Cis and Straight people don’t get a pride flag. 
I don’t have the words to stop people is prejudices.
I don’t have the words to educate people on the differences between Islam, and though the terrorists who pervert it.
I don’t have the words to show the world the vile things are refugees and immigrants have go through just to be ridiculed by the country they’ve escaped to.
I don’t have the words to teach people why women say, “kill all men”.
I don’t have the words to convince people that anyone other than native cis white straight men should have rights. 
Even in a meeting with anyone who have the slightest shred of influence,
I could scream,
I could rant,
I could yell,
I could cry,
I could shout,
I could break down.
But they still oppress people for things they can’t control.
and I’d make a fool of myself because
I don’t have the words.
I’d scream from the rooftops,
but I don’t have the words.
If I did, I tell you every day how beautiful you are:
I tell you the sunsets are jealous of your smile.
I tell you that God’s favourite Angel is envious because you were chiselled out of the purest Alexandrite.
Id tell you Apollo’s harp is nowhere near to the sound of your laugh.
Id tell you you look like a Taylor Swift song.
Every day i try to go and tell you how pretty you are.
But you’re standing there with,
All your friends and,
All the fourteen eyes on me because I’m interrupting the conversation for…what exactly?
To stammer and stutter and make an absolute fool of myself in front of them because,
I just don’t have the words.
You’d think if you looked at what I’ve done,
“Now that’s a man who has the words”
But my brain is just a big bowl of twisted scribbles,
Rolled up into one big knot,
And whenever I try and find the words to speak,
They just tumble out in to a vomit of turmoil.
And when I try and tell you, even though I want to be more, that I just want to be friends;
the words just jumble up and travelling an endless loop from my mouth to my brain to my stomach to my mouth because
I just don’t have the words.
Yesterday you said that was the funniest thing I’d said,
And he told me, “those words were yours, you have the words”
But I fumble and care and overthink, and I can’t pick the right words.
What if I say the wrong thing?
What if I make you think worse of me?
What if I offend someone?
I wish I could speak some
I wish I could find the words or the courage 
I wish there was a VR world where I could practice saying it so I can get it right.
And I wouldn’t make a fool of myself because
I’d have the words.
I know I don’t have the words to stop wars.
I know I don’t have the words to fix climate change.
I know I definitely don’t have the words to save people from bigotry. But maybe one day,
I can have the words to tell you how I feel about you.
- A.F.A.Makar

More Posts from Thatpersonalex18 and Others
Pedro López aka “Monster of the Andes”
Pedro Alonso López, more commonly known as the Monster of Andes, was born 8th October the seventh of thirteen child of Benilda López De Casteneda in Colombia 1948. He commonly caught his mum committing acts of prostitution and this would lead his mother finding him fondling his younger sister’s breast in ‘57 when he was eight. As a result he was kicked out of the house. The supposedly a polite boy who wanted to be a teacher (according to his mother), ran away to Bogotá, Colombia. He then said he had been kidnapped and raped. He was later taken in, aged 12, by a US immigrant family and enrolled in a school for orphans. He ran away again after two years either with a teacher or because he was being molested by a teacher.
He was a serial killer and child rapist who murdered a minimum of 110 young girls from the year 1969 to 1980 but claims to have murdered over 300 across Colombia, Peru and Ecuador. The monster of Andes claimed that during his imprisonment for car theft, he was brutally gang raped and then, still incarcerated he hunted down and killed the most brutal of his rapists. When he was released he moved to Peru and started murdering young girls. He claimed that by ‘78 he had killed over 100 girls before he was caught and captured by an indigenous tribe. They were about to execute him, before a missionary from the US persuaded them to hand him over to the state police, after which he was quickly released.
López claimed he returned to Colombia and the moved to Ecuador, during which, he claimed he had killed about three girls a week. He stated: “I like the girls in Ecuador; they are more gentle and trusting. More innocent.”
The nonce was arrested when an attempted kidnapping failed and he was trapped by market traders. The Associated Press (AP) reported his arrest to been in march 1980 and that he had boasted about killing anywhere from 200 to 369 young girls. According to CNN, López “Was arrested in 1980 but was freed by the government in Ecuador at the end of [1998]”. During an interview from his prison cell, the pedophile described himself as “the man of the century” (obviously disregarding his rapes and murders of young girls) and said he was being released for “good behaviour”. An A&E biographical documentary reported that he was released from an Ecuadorian prison on 31/8/199, then rearrested as an illegal immigrant and tossed him to the Colombian authorities, who pinned a 20-year-old murder on him. He was declared insane and held in the psychiatric wing of everyone’s favourite Bogotá hospital. In 1998, he was declared sane and released on a $50 bail, subject to conditions. He later absconded. The earlier documentary says that Interpol released an advisory for his rearrest by Colombian authorities over a fresh murder in 2002, he is currently wanted and whereabouts are unknown.
Aside from uncited local accounts, López’s crimes first received international attention from an interview with Ron Laytner, a longtime freelance photojournalist in his Ambato prison cell in 1992. According to Laytner’s story, López got his nickname Monster of the Andes in ‘80, when he purposely led the police to the graves of 53 girls between the ages 9 to 12 in Ecuador.
“I hide behind sarcasm because telling you to go fuck yourself is considered rude in most social situations.”
— Unknown
He Frustrates Me
He frustrates me,
He is everything I try to be.
He is the beautiful ray of sunshine,
He is the smell of the dark forest pine.
His smile is the first setting of snow,
His hair is darker than the hide of a doe.
His posture is hunched,
His smug face deserves to be punched.
He is arrogance,
He is a wince.
He is a critical teacher,
He is a frustrating preacher.
His grating voice sings the songs of angels
His perfect smile hides teeth of whack paddles
His laugh is a thousand rusty nails
His intellect can cure all your ails
He starts everything but commits to a peep
He commands an army but wants to sleep
He’s beautiful but he fell out of favour
-A.F.A. Makar
Ok, i waited. I was patient, i waited five episodes where the FUCK is my pretty boy genius.
HOW THE FUCK DO YOU TURN SNAPCHAT ON DARK MODE😭😭😭😭😭
I GOT A NEW PHONE AND ITS HELL!!!
From now on, im just gonna shitpost all my thoughts.
Hot water
Tw: self hatred/self harm
Every night at the same time exactly,
I step into the shower to wash myself for five minutes precisely.
I take the shampoo and scrub it into my hair,
Letting the soap drip into my eyes as I try not to swear.
I don’t touch the shampoo-mother says it makes my hair greasy,
She says it would make me look easy.
I run the soap bar over my body,
My stomach getting knotty.
My face starts to fall apart,
I begin to cry as I wish I could restart.
I fall to my knees as the hot water scratches at my back.
I feel the pain.
Gods do I love the pain.
The pain that almost makes me feel human.
The pain I so deserve.
Like the hounds of hell themselves, the water scalds my skin.
Making me feel human,
Oh so human.
- A.F.A Makar
From now on, im just gonna shitpost all my thoughts.
Two Trees
There are two identical trees I see,
They stand together, content as can be.
They dance gleefully in the summer,
And hold each other bare in the winter.
I watch them from my maths class,
Bored, trapped behind the glass.
But there? They laugh free,
Loving with a love stronger than me.
-A.F.A Makar
Hot Air Balloon
When we were younger we had an eccentric old man for a neighbour, and he owned a hot air balloon.
Whenever we would ask him about it he would tell us he had travelled everywhere with it, even the moon.
We’d laugh at the absurdity, and tell him there is no way it was true.
He’d pick up the toothpick from between his lips and wave it at us, saying: as true as a cow’s moo.
Then he’d sit us in the basket and watch the wonderful worlds we’d pave.
And now we stand, crying at the hot air balloon carved on his grave.
But every time I look at the skyline from this eccentric old balloon:
I see his face smiling from the horizon and then moon.
- A.F.A Makar
Ok this is really pissing me off, you don’t smell your crush in amortentia. You smell your favourite scents, like yes Hermione smelt Ron’s hair but that’s because she liked the smell.
