If you are lacking capital,
You won't show on the map at all,

You wont show on radar as little green blips,
If your bank account can't furnish means for a tip,
In a Washington  lobby, to fund a campaign, so
Now the youth have a future, in sutures and maimed,

By a financial beast, that just cannot be tamed, and
It's fed by the folks who are riggin' the game,
A small, opulent group of the fiscal insane,
The ones who observe them have given them names,

They're the "oligarchs," they're the "robber barons"
They're the "plutocrats," and they don't like sharin'
You can speak of reform, but they'll tell you to spare 'em, as
You watch, in bewilderment, grimaced and glarin,' as

They profit off health care, off oil stocks, and banks, and
Control public discourse, with PR  think tanks, cause
They own all the media, feedin ya lies, that
Are dressed up as facts,  in a clever  disguise, so

At propaganda, "take a proper gander," then
Stand and unite, as change demanders!

Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic.
Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics,
Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then
Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription,

Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen,
Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission
Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves
Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth,

Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications,
Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing
Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent,
Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence

Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold
Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold
Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold,
Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told

Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined,
Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined,
Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined,
Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design

Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided,
Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united,
Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and
Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.

Be mindful, but don’t fixate
Be outspoken, but diffident.
Be a teacher, but don’t berate
Be yourself, but don’t be different.  

You’re free to talk till your tongue ties,
If you don’t mind the clamour of shushes.

Knowledge is powder running through fingers.
Knowledge is crushed by a card on the table.
Knowledge is stuck in your nose and it lingers;
each sting brings regret, and makes a mind unstable.
“ A little learning is dangerous thing”;  
A little smoke to make a fool feel able
to lick the dust up with the devil and sing:
“ Theres dust on the graves and ashes on the cradles"

Don’t mistake this feeling for true wisdom.
Don’t get caught lost in it’s smokey shroud;
for each thought is fleeting and their relevance is seldom.
Like this drab, mess of language said out loud.  
It’s a sober reflection, a warning to myself,
to tell the truth, and to think thorough and proud.
To shame the devil, not blame him for my health.  
To lift that heavy head that was bent over bowed,

And crack it open on the edge of that table.

Like and hour glass smashed and spilling,
this kind of learning seems a waste of time.  
But I can see the filth that had been filling
my head,  scattered out across each rhyme.

"Hope's a balloon, hope's a balloon.
Pop it ya bastart's and let it fall soon.
To wait is to worry where it will land,
so put the power in that old right hand,
and pop it before the rise of the moon. "

As I watched the cluttered sky above me, moving with the murmur of a waiting room, I couldn't help but feel sorry for those quiet little hopes; Everyone walks around with their neck bent, staring at the sky unable to see the stars, and only able to feel the moon. And they never stop to look around either.  Seems a wee bit sad t'me.

A young woman caked in makeup
hangs from a tree caked in concrete;
She’s alive and well, smiling gleefully.
But the tree doesn’t look so good.

I’m a  twentieth century baby,
  and a twenty first century man;
  Preceded by the definite maybe’s
  of a fickle generations attention span:

"**** the alarmist. Dissect the murderer.  
Round up the lost lot. Ground the ponderer.
For we are the witless wanderers”

We are born out of confusion and into anxiety,  
we swallow up old decades for a pastime;
they're digestible bytes to the digital society,
and their ideals oft’ so easy to mime.  

But we’re witless in our meter-less rhyme.