I want to scream until I’m hoarse,
Until I can’t scream any more.
Then, when my voice box is bleeding,
When these demons are done feeding,
I’ll fall to my knees, in due course.

Clammy hands, high rate of respiration,
Fight or flight mode, in full activation.
Rough waves in the ocean of the stomach,
Enough to turn a dancer into a lummox.

The seduction of steady doses of self-destruction,
De-construction of the self, as if by court injunction.
Drink this bottled rage, distilled onto this safe, contained space;
Feel its unbridled power as it courses through your veins,
Unleash it onto those who have many ill-gotten gains.

I want to be free of this anxiety,
To do away with impropriety.
I want to stop feeling sick in my soul,
Whenever I analyse society.

Maybe, I’ve gone batshit insane;
A caged animal, crazed, in pain.
Maybe, all my cries are in vain;
But, I’ll be ****** if I die in chains.

__

My life, my labour, my lineage;
My time - a favour, a privilege.
My very existence, up for sale;
Watch, as democracy gets impaled.

Sold off, bought by the highest bidder;
Out in the cold, caught in a blizzard.
Meanwhile, loyalties are on sale,
Lives are sabotaged, set up to fail.

Born, reared and raised inhaling dust,
Told to vote, to do so’s a must.
Led to the edge by the undead,
Fueled by secrets best left unsaid.
Sworn in, cheered on, values betrayed,
Victors portrayed, losers dismayed,
Our disillusionment displayed;
We’re in deep ****, be ready to wade.

There’s no lust, no zest for life;
There’s no trust, when there is strife.
I see strife aplenty enough;
I see many are acting tough.
Hardened hearts that have come apart,
Forced to live like this, playing a part.

Sold! The entire, impoverished lot;
Sold to the men of the black hand,
The string-pullers, crafting the whole plot.
The world is being auctioned off,
And you are the merchandise,
You are fuel for the enterprise.

You might not believe what I’ve just conceived;
Mark me as read, a fake ‘message received’.
You might look away, maybe take a day off;
I won’t, I can’t, I mustn’t.
There’s no time for going soft.

My pen feels dead in the water;
It’s got nobody to speak to,
Nobody reads during global slaughter.
I feel like we’re in a temple of evil,
To be sacrificed at an altar.

I don’t want to compete with anyone.
The fragility of the ego -
I find it far too cumbersome.
I don’t want to secure a home loan;
There’s a whole world out there,
Just waiting to be known!
I’ve got beautiful things to be shown,
Skills to hone, places where I want to go;
I wish to soar to the heights where the hawks have flown.

So, I write, and I think, and I dream;
I believe in my ideas, in the thoughts I conceive.
I try to bring my thoughts together,
To create links like a river’s streams.
I do not wish to have to adhere to schedules,
To meet deadlines on the factory floor;
I do not wish to be enslaved to generate revenues.

Freedom is the spontaneity of life,
To walk hand-in-hand with your inner demons,
Like a loving husband and doting wife.
It’s letting passion inflict its distinct fervour,
Letting emotions overload your servers.

I do not wish to be wealthy;
Because of this rat-race,
Our tomorrow looks sickly and unhealthy.
We’re all out here, chasing the next banknote,
Running away from the debt squeezing our throats.
We simply are, there shouldn’t be much more to it.
Everything else is superfluous,
So might as well just lose it.

This is all I see.
The stump of a dead tree,
Murdered, in an enraged spree.
There seems to be nothing left for you or me.

What else can I do?
I make poetry to cry to,
For when there’s nothing left inside you.
All I see are backs against walls,
Hands behind heads, as liberty falls.

I don’t have a place here.
I serve no functional role.
It’s like I don’t even have a name,
It’s like death already took its toll.

Why am I like this?
Dangerous, like a snake’s hiss,
Lost, far from any kind of bliss.
An anarchist, and an artist,
Doomed, someone who history won’t miss.

Foretold to never die old,
But rather, alone and cold,
In a rash moment, probably defiantly bold.
I’d rather be so, than be bought and sold.

We sing,
But nobody truly listens.

We dance,
But nobody truly sees.

We recite,
But nobody truly understands.

We paint,
But nobody truly resonates.

We write,
But nobody really reads.

We act,
And everyone applauds,
Everyone says 'that's so true,'
And everyone moves on.

The plight of the artist.
Requiescat in pace.
Beginning of humanity - 2019.

As soon as you glanced at me askance,
My heart jittered, it stood no chance.
If it were up to my heart,
It would already be on my sleeve;
Although it's been tort apart,
Somehow, it still believes.