There's nothing special about my greedy utopian dream: I'm not off grid, or more ecco' friendly; I still order luxury goods from overseas, hoard, engage in cliques, use the internet, dream about my own bit of land, claim any benefits I can.
I use the same drugs, minerals, roads, hospitals, banks, and I pollute the same air; with the same stink of self righteous elitism; because just like everyone else; I am unique!
There is nowhere off grid, our human place in the world is a human construct a reserve ffs
No, I don’t want to die. I like writing poetry I like to cry Enjoy my art! For it comes with heart No need ask why Let your mind be free, be dark, be soft! Or if you insist I’ll leave you with this: You may, of course kindly, just *******!
Strings, So finely woven Entwined with threads of truth, Of harsh realities And with every cut, The weight grows unbearable And the unbearable becomes restless Until you're holding onto Latching onto Fingers burning onto The last string The last standing string - that is Faith.