Enslaved
Then freedom
From freedom,
Time burns into
Forgetfulness
Turned into
Apathy
Turned into
Slaver

The queen, the sparkling of her crown sheds light onto her station, she rises to the occasion, her glory your delight, her throne your admiration, you place her in high regard.
The queen, the heaviness of her crown, sheds tears onto her duty, she rises for your glory, for your delight, not for hers, for the throne’s chains hold her in place.

Sing the song of sorrow, you peasants of popularity
Everybody hanging on your words
Dripping with yeses and pleads for your attention
They do not know the contents of your heart,
Your wish
Seeking those who say no and stand up to you
You begrudge those who dare not fight your words, those who sulk when you snap
Snap their feebleness, those lousy **** ups
Where are the real people, the true
Why must you be followed by groupies who refuse your invitation to fight, to bicker
To disagree
Do they not know your sorrows, your delights of ****** and throw
Your voice has become as a funeral drudge as you slowly die of boredom,
your soul withers as you wallow in pity,
your popularity as a magnet of fiends of friendship

Bill keeps on calling asking for money
He laughs when I say no, and then demands me to lend it to him
He wants me to lend him his paycheck, the green to feed his family
Clickety-click, he receives my silence, the insult of my indignation
I only have enough to worry about my needs, not his
Why does he keep calling, paying me an unyielding hello?
Who does he think he is, insulting me into giving him his desires?
We just don’t seem to click, yet in the end, somehow we do

Savor the sweetness of bad poetry, the crooked and cockeyed words,
the lame and bumpy thoughts of oblivion
Skip out the jumbled rhythm, and just roll with it
The road is not smooth, the jargon misplaced
Swift the ****, pace by its carcass, caress your stiff neck, your strained eyes
the pen killed the message, the hands tremble in its confusion
It isn’t good, it isn’t sensual or soothing
It clumps in your throat, making disgust, flopping out of par
swing and miss, capture the drive, the stamina to make it through
Make the trudge, delve in the derelict
Can you make out the message, the theme?
or is it so bad you want to scream, or just cry from the injustice of bad lines
Do not line your thoughts in the flow, the swift, but let your soul sing the confusion of its blunted voice, let it bask in its commonality of bad taste
Do not pen out, but pen in
Do not bleep out, but bleat out
Scream your unworthiness, your crooked smiles, your cockeyed convulsions
Give us your bad poetry, God knows I have.

Superficial salutations, polite insincerity beckons me to smile
Yet inwardly frown, indifferently my apathy towards you is unknowing
Yet you don’t care, walking on, not even looking towards who you greeted
I walk on wasting empty words, wasted thoughts

My mind is elsewhere, my thoughts cut off by my inept actions
The hallways, long and narrow
When do I make eye contact, when do I smile
Do I wave, or do I simply nod my greeting

I’m confused, gone are the ethics of caring, showing our true selves
Yet pretending
The masks we design and delve in, the wasted effort
Do we deign for attention, desire it

I would rather not talk to you, nor make communication
I know you don’t either
Yet, in our perfect word, our codified condescendence
Smile the mask, smile the task, uncaringly we mumble
Our hellos and goodbyes in one syllable sentences not skipping a beat

The room swallows its invaders, the forest green comforting yet crushing
Its comfort as hands cradling the softness of a chick, or boxing in the of the sow
She beckons to her captives, visitors unawares of her innards, her gut feelings
Even the ghosts crawl away in fear, their souls wandering the blanched out streets

Brick after brick, she hardens her heart, her eyes as windows to her boxed soul
Lending her comfort she messes herself, her contents spewed about like trash
Tidy up my mess of a life, count the bricks of my face, love me, hold me
The road to her majestic arms, the drive to her madness makes her swoon

She is not free, you can bank on that
She desires to roam, to live free, fresh air
But she has shut herself out, yet in she dives
As do her invaders, that forest green
How just grand, that room