It’s not really difficult:
the golden rule,
walking in others’ shoes,
giving two ***** about
the lives of others.
It’s right there.
Has been since the days
of squatting in caves
planning mammoth takedowns

But the clowns have weaponised caring
to become a choice.

It’s not. Raise your voice.

If you did, then you would
but you don’t, so you won’t,

to pretend otherwise
makes an *** out of you
and a corpse out of me

If it's a distance empty from the A to B we can't decipher.
lined along with bricks and mortar, stick and stone left how we like em.
How do efforts scurry through assuming light could bless the shadow
nose to sky with hopeful glances honing in on roads of gravel.

Growing disillusion suits a lofty breadth of chest to beat on
knowing in the end a setting sun eclipses better eons.
Apropos of nothing and devoid of any hopeful signal
known to try imposing gold on weathered stone, and broken spindles

Drew the yoke upon a sect who we prescribed a disposition
drawing red each sordid line, insuring they'll be sent to prison.
Never free. The harvester assumes the fruit have grown impatient
failing here to see them printing license plates on new plantations.

Maybe in the future we'll refuse the craven role, observer,
graduate to breaking through, return the lives we stole with fervor.
Maybe while elites are keen to trim the fat and clip the losses,
we'll discover links they hadn't seen, between our little boxes.

When our battle comes from within,
How will it be possible to win?
Our left is tearing away from our right-
How can we win? How do we fight?

We try clawing our way out of this hole,
But only effortlessly, losing our soul.
Lets fight to be heard, let's all scream-
"We need to wake up from this dream"!

Nothing makes sense anymore,
And we are left empty to the core.
Let's rise up from this pit
And tell the masses as we see fit
So all can become aware of the lies being told
To trick you into the mold.

They turn us into sheep
So we can make comfortable the elite.
There is no life in being a slave-
They want us to keep digging our grave!

And there is no heaven or hell,
That a big fat lie as well!
Money and religion go hand in hand
Making sheeple of every man.
Controlling you, and certainly not caring
If your life is worth sparing.

We have to wake up and realize
That our ship is being captized!
Teamwork will be the only way to save it,
That is, if you even give a ****.

Community,
they told me I
I was a part of it,
that I must comply.


We’re told to comply
in the way we speak,
in the way we interact,
in the way we feel.
Those who oppose,
those who stand
for a transcendental nature
are fitted with the title
of an Outcast.


An Outcast: A person
deemed unfit to live
amongst the classiest
of society. It’s a title
given out by the Elites.
They give out a title
under the predicate of a
falsehood and the personal
perpetual facade of laziness.
I am neither.


I am in the world, yet I am
somewhere that isn't Earth.
I am here, but I am not.
I exist, but my mind, my
opinions become a blur.


My mobility becomes a leisure,
and my leisure becomes my labor;
My labor becomes my profession;
My profession beholds my title.
I roam in the society casted by the
Elites, but I am merely a chess piece
to their game.


I am not an Outcast, I am not an Elite.
I am the class of the inbetween.
I am the silenced voice.
I am the history that’s repeated,
I am not a part of the community.
I am of the voices that
are disregarded.

The money and the power
fit like hand in glove,
manipulating our lives
with hands soaked in blood.

Like pawns on a chessboard
we follow their commands,
cleverly manipulated
by cold corporate minds.

They reap a tainted harvest
bought with sleeping souls,
their purses bulging
as they play out their roles.

Prancing about in their
huge stately homes,
costumes adorned
with skulls and bones.

Masonic handshakes
get you into their halls,
where horrors unfold
amidst terrified calls.

And way down here
on the creaking boards,
another pawn is lost
to the bloodthirsty hoard.

Their veils are returned
as they cover the loss.

Another family bereft,
must recover the cost.


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd march 2015.
Revised 2nd October 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.