@simeonweil.bsky.social
true leftist empath here, Jesus very clearly evidences the belief that the precondition to brotherly love is the elimination of economic stratification, which he expected us to do here and now to instantiate the kingdom of God
August 11, 2025 at 8:08 AM
true leftist empath here, Jesus very clearly evidences the belief that the precondition to brotherly love is the elimination of economic stratification, which he expected us to do here and now to instantiate the kingdom of God
they aren't
it was structurally designed as racial terrorism
it was structurally designed as racial terrorism
June 22, 2025 at 6:53 PM
they aren't
it was structurally designed as racial terrorism
it was structurally designed as racial terrorism
motherfucker you have been a lockstep propagandist affirming every premise leading up to this, but you're upset about Trump bypassing *process*?
fuck you dude, this is on you too
fuck you dude, this is on you too
June 22, 2025 at 1:50 AM
motherfucker you have been a lockstep propagandist affirming every premise leading up to this, but you're upset about Trump bypassing *process*?
fuck you dude, this is on you too
fuck you dude, this is on you too
uh because dissent is patriotic and because the substance of his dissent accords with actual american values
i don't want him deported, i want him for president
i don't want him deported, i want him for president
April 30, 2025 at 3:23 AM
uh because dissent is patriotic and because the substance of his dissent accords with actual american values
i don't want him deported, i want him for president
i don't want him deported, i want him for president
same energy as the "artists for ceasefire" buttons
March 5, 2025 at 3:56 AM
same energy as the "artists for ceasefire" buttons
are the rest of these wimps just going to sit silently the rest of the speech
more disruption -- get kicked out, lock in your support w the base
they should each just boo until they're all kicked out one at a time, waste 90 minutes
more disruption -- get kicked out, lock in your support w the base
they should each just boo until they're all kicked out one at a time, waste 90 minutes
March 5, 2025 at 2:30 AM
are the rest of these wimps just going to sit silently the rest of the speech
more disruption -- get kicked out, lock in your support w the base
they should each just boo until they're all kicked out one at a time, waste 90 minutes
more disruption -- get kicked out, lock in your support w the base
they should each just boo until they're all kicked out one at a time, waste 90 minutes
I am the flood that will not be refused.
I am the song that could not be silenced.
I am the story that could not buried.
I am the feast that was promised.
I am the storm that returns what was taken.
I am the world that is coming.
I am the world made whole.
I am the song that could not be silenced.
I am the story that could not buried.
I am the feast that was promised.
I am the storm that returns what was taken.
I am the world that is coming.
I am the world made whole.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
I am the flood that will not be refused.
I am the song that could not be silenced.
I am the story that could not buried.
I am the feast that was promised.
I am the storm that returns what was taken.
I am the world that is coming.
I am the world made whole.
I am the song that could not be silenced.
I am the story that could not buried.
I am the feast that was promised.
I am the storm that returns what was taken.
I am the world that is coming.
I am the world made whole.
I am the step that does not falter,
the drum that does not cease.
I am the hunger that is holy,
the fire that does not burn out.
I am the hands that do not break,
that do not bow, that do not beg.
I am the wind through the halls of the empty palace.
the drum that does not cease.
I am the hunger that is holy,
the fire that does not burn out.
I am the hands that do not break,
that do not bow, that do not beg.
I am the wind through the halls of the empty palace.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
I am the step that does not falter,
the drum that does not cease.
I am the hunger that is holy,
the fire that does not burn out.
I am the hands that do not break,
that do not bow, that do not beg.
I am the wind through the halls of the empty palace.
the drum that does not cease.
I am the hunger that is holy,
the fire that does not burn out.
I am the hands that do not break,
that do not bow, that do not beg.
I am the wind through the halls of the empty palace.
until the day no home is locked,
no street is haunted,
no breath is sold,
no name is forgotten,
until the day the last gate is torn from its hinges
and the last price tag stripped from the world—
no street is haunted,
no breath is sold,
no name is forgotten,
until the day the last gate is torn from its hinges
and the last price tag stripped from the world—
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
until the day no home is locked,
no street is haunted,
no breath is sold,
no name is forgotten,
until the day the last gate is torn from its hinges
and the last price tag stripped from the world—
no street is haunted,
no breath is sold,
no name is forgotten,
until the day the last gate is torn from its hinges
and the last price tag stripped from the world—
Until the day no belly is emptied to fill another man’s pockets,
until the day no hand reaches and finds only the cold,
until the day no child learns the weight of debt before the weight of love,
until the day no hand reaches and finds only the cold,
until the day no child learns the weight of debt before the weight of love,
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
Until the day no belly is emptied to fill another man’s pockets,
until the day no hand reaches and finds only the cold,
until the day no child learns the weight of debt before the weight of love,
until the day no hand reaches and finds only the cold,
until the day no child learns the weight of debt before the weight of love,
And so I make myself a blade against despair.
I do not let grief soften me into something that bends.
I do not let rage make my hands reckless.
I do not let longing make me turn away.
I do not wait for beauty before I set the table.
I do not wait for victory before I build.
I do not let grief soften me into something that bends.
I do not let rage make my hands reckless.
I do not let longing make me turn away.
I do not wait for beauty before I set the table.
I do not wait for victory before I build.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
And so I make myself a blade against despair.
I do not let grief soften me into something that bends.
I do not let rage make my hands reckless.
I do not let longing make me turn away.
I do not wait for beauty before I set the table.
I do not wait for victory before I build.
I do not let grief soften me into something that bends.
I do not let rage make my hands reckless.
I do not let longing make me turn away.
I do not wait for beauty before I set the table.
I do not wait for victory before I build.
My love is for the ones
who have had everything taken
and still find a way
to give.
For the ones who
hold up the weight of the world and
do not let it crush them.
For the ones who are told
to wait,
to kneel,
to lower their voices—
and do not.
who have had everything taken
and still find a way
to give.
For the ones who
hold up the weight of the world and
do not let it crush them.
For the ones who are told
to wait,
to kneel,
to lower their voices—
and do not.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
My love is for the ones
who have had everything taken
and still find a way
to give.
For the ones who
hold up the weight of the world and
do not let it crush them.
For the ones who are told
to wait,
to kneel,
to lower their voices—
and do not.
who have had everything taken
and still find a way
to give.
For the ones who
hold up the weight of the world and
do not let it crush them.
For the ones who are told
to wait,
to kneel,
to lower their voices—
and do not.
My love is for the teacher
sliding an apple across a desk,
pretending not to notice when
the child slips it into their bag.
My love is for the boy at the bus stop
in a jacket too thin for the season,
reading a book he will not put down,
not even to wipe his nose.
sliding an apple across a desk,
pretending not to notice when
the child slips it into their bag.
My love is for the boy at the bus stop
in a jacket too thin for the season,
reading a book he will not put down,
not even to wipe his nose.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
My love is for the teacher
sliding an apple across a desk,
pretending not to notice when
the child slips it into their bag.
My love is for the boy at the bus stop
in a jacket too thin for the season,
reading a book he will not put down,
not even to wipe his nose.
sliding an apple across a desk,
pretending not to notice when
the child slips it into their bag.
My love is for the boy at the bus stop
in a jacket too thin for the season,
reading a book he will not put down,
not even to wipe his nose.
My love is for the man in the grocery store,
counting change in his palm,
who sets down the butter
and takes the eggs instead.
My love is for the woman outside the clinic,
rubbing her arms against the cold,
whispering how
she’ll figure it out.
counting change in his palm,
who sets down the butter
and takes the eggs instead.
My love is for the woman outside the clinic,
rubbing her arms against the cold,
whispering how
she’ll figure it out.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
My love is for the man in the grocery store,
counting change in his palm,
who sets down the butter
and takes the eggs instead.
My love is for the woman outside the clinic,
rubbing her arms against the cold,
whispering how
she’ll figure it out.
counting change in his palm,
who sets down the butter
and takes the eggs instead.
My love is for the woman outside the clinic,
rubbing her arms against the cold,
whispering how
she’ll figure it out.
My love is for the father
who does not let exhaustion make him cruel,
who still kneels at his son’s bedside
after a fourteen-hour day,
who still listens to his daughter
tell him about the dream she had,
who does not say,
I am too tired to hear you.
who does not let exhaustion make him cruel,
who still kneels at his son’s bedside
after a fourteen-hour day,
who still listens to his daughter
tell him about the dream she had,
who does not say,
I am too tired to hear you.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
My love is for the father
who does not let exhaustion make him cruel,
who still kneels at his son’s bedside
after a fourteen-hour day,
who still listens to his daughter
tell him about the dream she had,
who does not say,
I am too tired to hear you.
who does not let exhaustion make him cruel,
who still kneels at his son’s bedside
after a fourteen-hour day,
who still listens to his daughter
tell him about the dream she had,
who does not say,
I am too tired to hear you.
My love is for the mother
who eats less so her children can eat more,
who presses the crust of her bread
into the broth and swallows it
slowly,
who stands in line at the food pantry
before heading to work,
who braids her daughter’s hair
with hands cracked from the cold.
who eats less so her children can eat more,
who presses the crust of her bread
into the broth and swallows it
slowly,
who stands in line at the food pantry
before heading to work,
who braids her daughter’s hair
with hands cracked from the cold.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
My love is for the mother
who eats less so her children can eat more,
who presses the crust of her bread
into the broth and swallows it
slowly,
who stands in line at the food pantry
before heading to work,
who braids her daughter’s hair
with hands cracked from the cold.
who eats less so her children can eat more,
who presses the crust of her bread
into the broth and swallows it
slowly,
who stands in line at the food pantry
before heading to work,
who braids her daughter’s hair
with hands cracked from the cold.
who drink water to quiet their stomach
before stepping into kitchens
and warehouses
and checkout lines
where the air is thick
with yesterday’s exhaustion.
before stepping into kitchens
and warehouses
and checkout lines
where the air is thick
with yesterday’s exhaustion.
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
who drink water to quiet their stomach
before stepping into kitchens
and warehouses
and checkout lines
where the air is thick
with yesterday’s exhaustion.
before stepping into kitchens
and warehouses
and checkout lines
where the air is thick
with yesterday’s exhaustion.
My love is for the ones
who wake before the sun,
who rise in darkness
to put on the same clothes as yesterday,
who lace their shoes tight,
ignoring the ache in their feet,
who wake before the sun,
who rise in darkness
to put on the same clothes as yesterday,
who lace their shoes tight,
ignoring the ache in their feet,
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
My love is for the ones
who wake before the sun,
who rise in darkness
to put on the same clothes as yesterday,
who lace their shoes tight,
ignoring the ache in their feet,
who wake before the sun,
who rise in darkness
to put on the same clothes as yesterday,
who lace their shoes tight,
ignoring the ache in their feet,
I will love the wind
when it is not laced with
the sting of tear gas,
when it does not carry
the sound of boots on pavement,
when it does not move through
a city that has been
gutted of its poor, swept clean
for tourists, scrubbed
sterile for wealth.
But until then—
when it is not laced with
the sting of tear gas,
when it does not carry
the sound of boots on pavement,
when it does not move through
a city that has been
gutted of its poor, swept clean
for tourists, scrubbed
sterile for wealth.
But until then—
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
I will love the wind
when it is not laced with
the sting of tear gas,
when it does not carry
the sound of boots on pavement,
when it does not move through
a city that has been
gutted of its poor, swept clean
for tourists, scrubbed
sterile for wealth.
But until then—
when it is not laced with
the sting of tear gas,
when it does not carry
the sound of boots on pavement,
when it does not move through
a city that has been
gutted of its poor, swept clean
for tourists, scrubbed
sterile for wealth.
But until then—
I will love the sky
when there are none that it forbids,
when it does not hang
heavy over prison yards,
when it is not crosshatched with smoke
from burning homes,
when no one spotting overhead
the shape of a drone
is forced
to run
when there are none that it forbids,
when it does not hang
heavy over prison yards,
when it is not crosshatched with smoke
from burning homes,
when no one spotting overhead
the shape of a drone
is forced
to run
March 5, 2025 at 12:54 AM
I will love the sky
when there are none that it forbids,
when it does not hang
heavy over prison yards,
when it is not crosshatched with smoke
from burning homes,
when no one spotting overhead
the shape of a drone
is forced
to run
when there are none that it forbids,
when it does not hang
heavy over prison yards,
when it is not crosshatched with smoke
from burning homes,
when no one spotting overhead
the shape of a drone
is forced
to run