Youre steady base,
Keeps my off beat rhythm
In tune.

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!

(Off-grid irony)

All the time
I hear it
He said to me
Sweetie be a
Sweet thing
for me

Money talks

Truth walks

Green paints a new world

Blood red stains the profit

of pain unfurled

From those who seek its power

Above life

A sick patient

On the operating table

Gets the treatment

Suffocation in quicksands of poverty

You bleed to death

Inspiration appears to only belong to the wealthy and their benefits

Brought the 62
Eight of Swords burned in carpet
Told me you'd bound me

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.