If Donald Trump becomes president, many countries that are already on the verge of declaring war against the U.S. would do so. If Donald Trump says the wrong words, like he has several times in his interviews, to the wrong person, such as Kim Jong-un. America could be looking at war with Cuba, North Korea, and other countries that America has bad relations with. Donald trump could also ruin good relations with countries, such as Canada, France, and the United Kingdom.

     With his words being able to cause more wars, he's putting many American lives at risk. By having the American Military fighting those battles. Just by the words that come out of his mouth, be could hurt many american lives.

     In those wars, Donald Trump also wouldn't make great discussion with the wars we are involved in, in Afghanistan and Iran. He would make hasty calls, putting several of our troops in trouble. Donald Trump doesn't know the first thing about making calls that have to do with several thousands of American lives. So why put him in charge of our military

This, as you just read is how many times Donald Trump has changed his mind. Let's start with how to beat ISIS:

1. Find a guy.

2.(insert non-existent secret plan here)

3. Send in ground troops, and get trigger happy with nukes.

4. Get money from oilfields.

5. ???Profit.

Donald Trump's plan for the illegal immigrants:

1. I don't know.

2.Deport the bad ones.

3.Nah, some of the immigrants can stay.

4.Deport everyone.

5.Maybe not.

6.Deport everyone, the second helping.

"They gotta go."

Donald Trump's plan(s) for tax reform:

1."You can't just be boom, boom, hard and fast."

2.Fair taxes.

3.Flat taxes.

4.Add some new stuff. (Insert non-existent secret plan to insert new tax stuff here.)

5. (Insert non-existent secret plan here)

6. (Insert another top secret plan here with slight changes.)

This might as well be a reality TV show.

I wrap my arms around me

terrified.

He’s coming, They're coming.

Arms raised above their heads

chanting.

Children run streets barefooted

terrified.

He’s coming, They're coming.

Voices raised above the crowds

saluting.

Dead eyes watch the commotion

terrified.

He’s coming, They're coming.

Heads raised above destruction

embracing.

I wrap my arms around us

terrified of their future.

He’s coming, They're coming.

To bomb contestation

To build separation

To burn aspiration.

He’s coming, They're coming.

Taking us back to pavement soaked in

Black blood, Brown blood.

Taking us back to mass graves holding

Black bodies, Brown bodies.

He’s coming, They're coming.

Trumps coming — but so are they.

Those in disguise

trying to claim our bodies as a prize.

i see a face in the card.

i see a mask in the card.

i see a flower in the card.

other:

you bake beneath the sun,

flesh and blood and all your sins

finally exposed.

violet splattered across the tarmac in puddles like pollock paintings

does nothing to phase the drivers,

and you've always reminded me i am as evil as everyone else

so i drive on.

(i smushed a barely buzzing fly on my windowsill—

i heard the bones shatter.)

we are conditioned for cruelty.

we are a careless people,

ceasing only for god and stop lights.

if only you could see yourself now.

you are just innards tonight,

some backyard ingredient for a redneck stew,

intestines for dinner—

punishment for an almighty sinner—

a half-dead fucker 

crawling up throats until they burn blue.

those backwards bastards would have trouble plucking you from the highway—

you are bound to road by heat and blood,

all too familiar.

while you are stuck,

i move on,

and the nights in which i wonder how many gods i've been

come less and less.

(i shot a raccoon once,

but not for pleasure.)

lately, instead of staring at graves,

i've looked at rorschach tests.

call me crazy, but i see it now

when they ask me to examine

your stains 

and tell them what red tire tracks look like.

you. 

at least you are past aching.

i am still here, 

not quite close to breaking

like your belly did 

as it was crushed to magenta juices and a purple pulp.

things look like they're whirling around in the card.

i tilt my head,

and my neck cranes to see remains of a carcass and a purge.

other:

it looks like someone got what they deserved.

Trump does the hocus pocus

And that’s what he’s all about

He puts his right ass in

He puts his right ass out

And shakes it all about

He makes America a joke

And that’s what he’s all about

He spews his bigoted views

And shakes it all about

He promises to make us great

But declared bankruptcy himself

Inherited money from his father

And that’s what he’s all about

A Napoleon in a Trump suit

Throws tantrums left and right

Can’t fire heads of other countries

So cry, baby, cry like an infant

And shake it all about

And do the hocus pocus

That’s what he’s all about.

Only knows business

Can’t understand stem cell research

Would reinflate housing bubble

Promising economy stimulation

Aiming darts at dart board but missing

Screams for more and more sanctions

Likes word but doesn’t know its meaning

Says pull yourself up by bootstraps

But they can’t afford bootstraps

So cut the programs that get them on feet

Yes, do the hocus pocus

And shake the impoverished all about

Claims blacks and latinos commit the crimes

Break illegal alien families apart, send them back

Calls them rapists and criminals

Promises Mexico will pay for wall of discrimination

Trump is racist to the core

Disdains women and calls them bimbos

That’s what he’s all about

Moral character has taken a walk

Where shady Trump is concerned

Bulldoze everything that gets in way of progress

That’s his mantra, sing it loud

Draft dodger sings “My Country Tis of Thee”

Impulsive and unwilling to compromise

Shake it all about, pull wool over eyes

Fool unworldly citizens who can’t think

For themselves, praying to Trump for salvation

But he does the hocus pocus

Doesn’t turn himself around

Shakes his ass all about

And that’s what he’s all about.

no,

i tell her,

extracting the words from her mouth,

carefully pulling knives up her throat

(because depression is some fucked-up magic),

spoon-feeding her my thoughts instead.

you matter.

you're worth it.

i need you here. 

curled bones 

against my aching body,

hair in my mouth—

i tell her to let it out.

i am fine,

i tell myself,

drawing her closer

for a temporary time.

for that moment, 

we are safe.

after she leaves,

i stretch

and try to think of different colors,

one for each way i could do it.

purple- sleeping pills.

blue- water.

silver- blades.

red- bullets.

yellow- don't do it. 

brown- rope.

yellow.

yellow, yellow, yellow.

i tie back the curtains 

and let the warmth spread 

over my cold fingers and toes.

i capture the sunshine

in a mason jar

and release it in my mind

so it leaks into the gray corners 

and reminds me why i'm still here.

flashback: 

you remind me of plath.

white- ledge.

pink- cough syrup.

yellow yellow yellow.

good thought: 

i don't want to remind him of plath.

i want to write light.

i want to pen the sun.

(one day.)

the next day

she wants to die,

i am angry—

not because she wants to die—

but because she might go before i get the chance to.

sick thought:

i want to kill myself first.

i want to be the first to go.

and when he said i reminded him of sylvia, some piece of my heart smirked and said

good

because part of me has always wanted to be a tragedy,

and i would love to see the ripple reactions:

the gathering in the gym where even the drunks are sober,

grieving for a girl they never knew;

ghosts sobbing for a haunted soul, 

closed casket at the showing, but some try to pry it open because that's all they can do—

out of my head.

i push it out of my head.

i stick to yellow for six days,

gold and amber and citron and flax and lemon and mustard.

organic.

van gogh would be proud.

on the seventh day,

i stumble

and drop my palettes 

and when i try to pick them up,

they feel heavy.

black- a combination of my favorites.

sick thought:

i can make this beautiful 

if i do it properly.

if i twist this enough,

i can convince them i'm doing what's best.

if i stretch this enough,

i can make myself a martyr.

(but who am i 

to think my death could change the world?)

two days of yellow,

#ffe931 and #ffdc4e.

#000000.

#000000.

#000001.

slowly i rise.

sick thought:

i like being this way.

i don't want to get better.

sick thought:

i am best when i am sad,

and depression is my only original material.

are these thoughts driving me

or am i driving them away?

the steering wheel submits to 

my ripped, raw fingertips. 

all this control.

i am in control. 

sick thought:

i should drive into the ditch right now

and crash into the telephone pole

but the sun in my eyes is yellow,

so i am staying for twenty-four hours.

#F9FA57.