Little puppy born into orphanage and a dream,
Caged in the shelter and fettered by chains,
But stars and stripes glow with a vivid gleam;
And the smell of raw meat runs in his veins.

Now waxed in mettle and a member of the pack,
Moves silently from downwind to become alpha,
Preys on the weak and herds with a subtle attack;
Hence his callous ethos spreads a new miasma.

The scent of blood croons to his ravenous spirit,
The lone wolf on a reign of terror and disregard,
Alas new puppies shall from the ranks and inherit,
For a novel way they shall the auld discard,
They’ll forsake and send him to join the whisperers,
In his crucifixion he will fight his corner with no listeners.

With a wrinkled face
scorned by age,
you work and scrimmage
to try and save
your wage
for the better days to come.

Tired and betrayed
you see change
rushing from
the power of some
who want and take
the things you make.

By force of will
and money
they legislate
for the sake
of profits,

and we feel powerless,
like our voices have been stripped.
We feel as if
we are crippled
by the likes of that which
gives them power;

But there is power in a voice.
There is strength in a choice.
There is a gift in
giving compassion,
actions
that takes the harshness
of life and lessens
with lessons
and examples
of kindness.

You find this
in the giving of time,
the sharing of food,
while listening to
a lonely dude,
or stopping to help
strangers in need.

You may not see
the positivity
generated.

You may feel as if
it doesn’t mean ****,
as you watch all those crooks
shift and twist
the masses into
a hateful mob.

But that’s not
all you got,
there is more power
to be found
if you look around
and help those
who are down.

Admittedly,
the company
proved over-ambitious
as it
deteriorated

Pay no mind to the ones
Who sit in their offices
And make money
From campaigns built on insecurity
Conformity
And unattainable standards

Pity them instead
For through their corporate lenses
They see only green
When in fact
There is an entire rainbow

I never asked to join the rat race.
But being a cognizant participant of the
perpetual scramble
I've noticed
it seems
we're always neck-and-neck,
nose-and-nose--
it's me!
No, *******--
it's you--you're winning--oh,
wait--it's me again!
You!
Me!
Him!
ME!
you,
him, me, you...
Is this a marathon we're supposed to sprint?
Are  humans even capable of doing that?
Or... hamsters?
I slow down and become a fat ******* lump,
moving slowly, and yet somehow,
there you are beside me still.
There is our row of hamsters wheels,
and here is our imaginary race
to a finish that exists in an industrial dream.
The soul resides in the breath
we can never catch
as we are racing--
You're WINNING,
I'm winning!
You, me, you, him, her, me... again.
And again.
And again.
For efficiency's sake
we race in a row.