Aggrieved at that grievous throb
Betrayed by the rosy rose
Pricked by its deceitful thorns
Hit by the pang of remorse
There is one thing I can’t control,
The Hysteria.

Those bloodshot eyes, the sulking façade
Those falling pearls of repressed feelings
Let lose is the pain once gathered
Standing on the lousy tip of life’s reeling’s
There is one thing I can’t control,
The Hysteria.

This delirium of spleen
This rage I feel  towards all
All those merry, all those joyous
Jealous, for their luck is tall
There is one thing I can’t control,
The Hysteria

Deserving of desolate gloom
Meaning to feel the iniquity
The guilt of all my wrong doings
Is worth no good man’s pity.
There is one thing I can’t control,
The Hysteria.

Emerging economies.

What they’re emerging from I don’t know.

My guess, the depths of hell.

From the frying pan, right into the fire, or worse; a well.

A deep hole stronger than gravity, the force.

To be forever under the thumb of remorse.



A modern era of endless acts, policies and bla bla bla.

Shut up with all your platitudes.

I see what’s really going on. Aha!

You speak of sustainable development.

Nice to know that you’ve led by example.

Carried the mantle for all these years.



Centuries of ruthlessness, now veiled in sheep’s clothing.

But you won’t shut up. Because you don’t speak.

You never have. You just do.

Each day that goes by, you carry on anew.

Behind all the talk of hope, equality and more progress,

it seems the wolves are lurking.



Cooking up the next tool to subdue countless.

This time, not behind closed doors. But in plain sight.

It’s scary to imagine such spite.

Each year that goes by it becomes clearer that you never cared.

You sold guns, drugs and all kinds of war.

And each time, you kept coming back for more.



You’ve built up antibodies that ensure your survival.

But sometimes I wonder if you’re alive at all.

But what do I know?

Maybe you’re more alive than ever.

Doing what you do best but always more clever.

That not even the most stable of geniuses can evade your pressure.



A strong enough foundation that each break makes you stronger,

So strong that not even the Gremlin can take you under.  

Against this dreary background, foregrounded is nothing short of magical.

Beyond hope, prayers or a thoughtless radical.

Or maybe this is all just fake outrage.

An attempt to evade the boredom of this endless monotony and baggage.



Or maybe, the term is out of date.

Like every other, that makes me increasingly more irate.

In which case, this poem is at least ten years late.

Or maybe there are too many maybes’.

And I’m perfectly suited for this time of vague uneasiness and indifference.

In which case, my imagination probably needs more sociology and less a lesson in rhymes.