Rules and jurisdictions
What if you disengaged?
Consequences you didn't sign up for
Will **** you or have you caged.

Born in a system that
You can't opt of
So innocent,
Oblivious to the paradox.

They say you have freedom
But do you really see?
They have to tell you, you have it
So are you really free?

Guess you're gone again
Watched you walk away;
You always said breathe out then in;
Know you'll be back someday.

Same seeks same to find its home
Not meant to chase the vogue
Some souls are surely made to roam
Rebel always chooses Rogue.

And rebels need a reason
We can’t abide bad laws; yet
Against the heart there is no treason
When standing for a Cause.

Always loved unspoken things
Like the thrill of open sky
Every bird must find its wings
To let go of fear and finally fly.

Beneath your chest there beats a fire
A powerful creature that needs to be free
Weave these words into the pyre
This is who you’re meant to be.


And I refuse to be your cage,
Won’t bind your feet or blind your soul
Won’t consign you to dance on broken stage, ‘cos
You’re meant for more than that role.

Can’t hide a sky of stars in a box
Can’t bottle a boundless tide,
Can’t block nature behind black locks,
Though I’m ashamed to say I’ve tried.

If you must fade to find your grace
Because you’re made of art,
Just know you always have a place
Wherever waits this heart.

So,
You’re always free to go, and
Seek each untraveled road;
Build your dream abode.

Just please hear this song
That I’ve been singing all along:
I’ll always prove your fears were wrong, for
Some things will not erode.

Some days
She finds
Herself
Vacant
One
Self-destruct switch
Away
From
A life
Her own
But different

The steps
She takes
So delicate
As not to
Hurt
Still leave
Craters
In living room
Floors
Unmistakable

But better
Are craters
Of shrapnel
Than to be
Stagnant
Feet embedded
In a place
Where she
Finds
Only vacancy

They say I am a third world soldier.
They say I should be a proud warrior,
I am the protector of the mass, guardian of freedom and order
My job is from the centre to the border.
But, all I do is **** and die for the master.

I feel like a hunter's dog,
Only, the hunter is my government.
I ****, ****, ****, I die.
In the name of the law, in the name of freedom and order,
I draw blood.
I draw red blood, dead blood, innocent and guilty blood.

Master gives me bones of the dead, they call them medals.
Master floats on the river of blood.
Oh! I am a warrior, I am a dog.

Rebellious Poet

The world is a **** travesty!

(Pencil pusher in a suit seeks a talented
personality. Has many references to
personal opinions. Will **** d*ck for
fame.)

My question is this. Are there any voices
left at all? Any fingers with which to
actually inspire?
Are all the poet's really dead and extinct?
And only hopeless left, extinguishing the fire?

(Young teen seeks ways to vent rage.
Picks up a pen, writes about false suicide attempt. Cuts self for release. Will remove shirt for attention)

What happened to the singers of the past?
Did they all get lost in the crowd of rejects?
Is a spot on a page really considered art?
Makes me confused and very perplexed.

(Old man seeks renewal of old hobbies. Picks up a pen and writes. Shows people,
and is accused of radicalism. Will read
basic works just for love)

Am I wrong in my view of this world?
Has my heart truly died to all life?
Is it wrong to see flaws in existence?
Is it right to think difference has died?

(Young boy seeks love. Will allow self to be groomed and abused for attention).

Injustice. Ridiculousness. Absurdity.
It is wrong to be radical? To be free?
Will I let you chain my uncontrolled soul?
Nah. Never. I like being me.

I have seen my share of the world and its kicks,
and I tell you my friend... it is not a pretty sight.
Racism is put on the back burner now.
No more black against white.

For the world has resorted to grey and death.
They are not people.  They are just... normal.
While the romantics. The real rebels,
and the sympathetic of life are abnormal.

I want to read a really great scope of life.
A philosophy of hope on art and song.
And although there are many who are useless,
I pray they raise their voice and sing along.

So join me in this final, last embrace.
The truth of life that many have ignored.
This young guy just seeks a world of artists.
A place where sight and sounds can be adored.