"classless" poems
I bet you think all ****** don't read.
I bet you think all ****** smoke ****
I bet you think all ****** are the same.
I bet you think all ****** are the blame.
I bet you think ****** don't know nothing about the law.
I bet you think all ****** don't know nothing at all.
I bet you think all ****** are not smart.
I bet you think all ****** don't even care about art.
I bet you think all ****** are from the streets.
I bet you think, oh **** this poem is getting really deep.
I bet you think all ****** carry a heat.
I bet you think all ****** are dead beats.
I bet you think ****** are thugs.
I bet you think all ****** sell drugs.
I bet think all ****** are classless with statuses of madness
I bet you think all ****** are cashless.
I bet you think all ****** are in the penitentiary.
I bet you think all ****** are cemetery.
I bet you think all ****** rap or trap.
I bet you think all ****** sag their pants with two rags and a stockin' cap.
I bet you think all ****** are guilty.
I bet you think all ****** are filthy.
I bet you think all ****** rob.
I bet you think all ****** don't have a job.
I bet you think all ****** don't go to college.
I bet you think all ****** are out here wylin.
I bet you think all ****** are like Christopher Wallace.
I bet you think all ****** will grab and ****** you up for your wallet.
Some say a prophet, nah
I just see it how they call it.
Every line is on hydraulics.
Every time I rhyme, every word becomes solid.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
To tell her she is oppressed,
They try assaulting her for the way she is dressed
To command being served,
They try ****** her for the way she was curved
They're the classless that spit upon her key, her name,
For not inviting them freely into her house. What a shame.
Their violation forced humanity to live early life in a tomb,
Unaffected, she carries on, as she carries the world in her womb
Jan 25, 2022
Jan 25, 2022 at 4:30 PM UTC
Revolution: Part one.
The first French King sentenced to death,
Must have a new execution invented;
So that this day shall be forever remembered.
The execution of your King, this invention of evil;
This is how he will finally meet his end and go to the Devil.
The man behind the mask, the executioner;
Will lead us to change to a new world order.
A declaration of civil war, to stop the oppression,
Has lead France to say, we must fight to stop the aggression.
We must be revolting and begin the revolution;
To put an end to the executions.
The fall of the guillotine, for a life time spent,
Writing the encyclopedia, which lead to his death.
There is no place for God, in an encyclopedia of Man;
This writing is illegal, you are blasphemous! God ****
So the time has come, to take your last breath.
Remember when you see the guillotine... don't lose your head.
Until it's chopped off and ends up in the basket;
Another case of basket case madness.
No fiction necessary, for us to live here on Earth;
But this execution, you surely don't deserve.
So the poets leave France, before the revolution;
All of them heading, back to England.
These prison bars to entrap the young.
Taken prisoner for writing a book.
Follow their rules; free thinking is wrong.
The encyclopedia is evidence enough.
Man is born free and grows to imprison himself;
Then he must follow the orders, of somebody else.
Frances revolutionaries, said let it be, let it be;
But the nation is ruled, by the monarchy.
Imprisoned for what they think, the poets and the artists;
But there are no walls, in the prison inside their heads.
Begin the revolution and make us all classless,
Because they’re chained by society,
For the thoughts that they think.
A fight for equality, a modern day philosophy.
Man is born to think for himself; a revolution is on the way.
Liberty! Liberation for one free state;
A jaded nation must make a change.
Revolution began, after the fall of the blade;
Now the guillotine of power will stop us being slaves.
Preaching revolution, we must free ourselves of these manacles.
Preaching liberation for the masses
And freedom for the individual.
This new guillotine, the machine of death,
Makes the severed head fall into the basket,
As they take your last breath;
But they can't take your words, from the books you have written.
So fight the power!
Revolution! Revolution!
We must have a revolution, that is televised.
Che Guevara, Malcolm X, me, myself and I.
All of us willing to join the fight;
All of knowing our view is right.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
You could say she was classless like a Marxist utopia.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
I look with worried eyes, at social Vines, of flashing lights and a lack of rights.
Human compassion is lacking where it needs to be.
Hate feeds off of hate,
but if thats all it takes,
then **love should come so easily.**
Bashing in windows.
Spraying with mace.
Choking to death.
Eliminating race.
Classes are gone,
So classless mistakes,
are now made daily
at the hastiest rate.
We’re starving and hungry for the tastiest taste,
of what has become the most delicious
most suspicious,
vicious,
fishy,
repetitious,
superstitious,
vision named freedom.
It's naive to think we’re free when all that we see,
is a sea of beings not being one thing,
and that’s free.
When was the last time you felt it?
And we’ve been given a life long song and dance of "whoever smelt it dealt it".
So if you took the feeling of now and held it,
bottled it up and shelved it,
you would open up to find your mind in decline.
This moment was better
while laters behind.
Thats the path that we’re on
but we have control.
We’re not egos and clothes,
we’re people of souls
We're humans of thought
Not students of hate.
Evil got a head start,
but now truth is in the race.
And if truth is in your face,
and you choose to look away,
then get used to the abuse
and not confused at truce-less fates.
The pre action of action is thinking to act.
I'm thinking that actually we’re ready to snap.
They’ve bent us too far,
for us to go back.
The past is a place where patterns attack.
And people are put
no matter the facts.
Police are afoot
demanding the last,
of freedoms they take them,
and **** them with gas.
A historical scene on Kentucky blue grass
these colors don't bleed,
yet we see they fade fast.
We’ve exceed the need,
to keep things intact.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
As soon as you're born, they make you feel small
by givin' you no time instead of it all,
'til the pain is so great you feel nothing at all;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
they hate you if you're cleaver, and they despise a fool,
'til you're so ******* crazy, you can't follow their rules;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
When they've tortured and scared you for twenty-odd years
then they expect you to pick a career
when you can't really function, you're so full of fear;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
Keep ya doped with religion, *** and T.V.
and you think you're so clever and classless and free
but you're still ******* peasants as far as I can see;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
There's room at the top, they are tellin' you still,
but first you must learn how to smile while you ****
if you want to be like the folks on the hill;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
If you wanna be a Hero, well, just follow me.
If you want to be a Hero, well, just follow me.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
If sleep is the cousin of death then all of your dreams must reside on your breath
But death is as constant as the rain
So Like a lions mane wear your dead dreams sewn together proudly like a grass skirt in a luau in Maui
I see, and i know that no one is perfect but was jeopardizing our entire way of life worth it? I know i just discussed dreams earlier on in this piece but please allow me to indulge and talk about this elephant in the room.
Why is it that you thought that a man who is of African descent and a woman would lead us to our doom?
See, like Kennedy a lot of us had dreams of going to the moon and making a difference in the world more impactful than taking off the rest of the day at high noon,
Soon he'll be in office and i can't change that but let's face facts
We stood by and allowed your ignorance an audience we built your hate filled echo chamber that is certain parts of the information superhighway internet
O-bummer? Classless? Slime? January 20th the end of an error?
We all saw the comments on all the news pages and while those despicable words enraged us we know free speech is a part of what made this country
We have to take the good with the bad but, i do have one request.
Don't expect me to give him a chance as he panned and pranced all over the people who built this country off of our ancestors backs...
Don't expect me to not take him to task lyrically because maybe it'll be all that i have.
He. Is not. A president.
So like i said, sleep is the cousin of death.
But wake up friends...wake up for the mistakes we have to correct...
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
Twenty classless, eight cigarettes.
Fighting over the radio at the
Inpatient Mental Health Facility,
A broken sense of belonging,
And a dearth of veggie burgers.
Listless with his lists, of course.
Angst from the Anglophile, unable to
Put a stopper in the pouring,
Bleeding emotions.
Open hands
Stained red, and brown.
Three breaks a day, scarring his
Broken knuckles, they paint the walls.
Code Smoking Gun,
Code Smoking Green,
Manic man, loading his shoulders with his
Father’s burden, too big for Atlas’s arms,
Or his mother’s shunning palms.
Three breaks a day,
Knee, shoulder, hip.
The coffee’s decaf
But your calves? Well,
They’re just sore.
They dish the brick every
Other evening. But living, for
No light, only serves to lessen your
Love of life and make you
Light-headed.
Broken beds with rock-solid
Pillows. Three breaks a day to
Remind you of your regression. We
Want you here as much.
Why’re you whining?
Busy doctors bust the doors, thank
God for the freedom, the
Fluorescent finish to your odyssey. The
Flowers and grass greet you in
Shades of pink and green your
Greedy eyes hadn’t seen.
Exhale. Ghost out your grieving.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Rio Olympics
No more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio,
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,
where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,
Son,
you don’t know me,
allow me to introduce myself,
I’m Aaron Lux I’m a writer,
and I believe knowledge is wealth,
stealth lover yes,
not a stealth fighter jet,
because if you ask me how we can stop ISIS,
I’ll say let’s release the Happy Mist,
they’ll just call it Happy Clouds,
serious as a heart attack with Cirrus clouds of Happy Mist,
or better yet,
Nimbus clouds,
and citrus sounds,
our reigns begun,
this is a flood not trickle down,
no more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,
where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,
and speaking of sun,
we are live at the Apollo,
like the Greek God of the same name,
trying to fill all theses hearts we meet that are hollow,
hello,
do you want something to believe in,
well how about world peace,
for the people and the planet that we live on,
honestly,
and that is why when I see war,
I don’t think the only way to stop it is violence,
because if you fight fire with fire then you’ll burn the whole world down,
and I’m an eager volunteer fire fighter that’s first in and a final finalist,
where is the Happy Mist,
let’s cover the gun smoke with love soak,
let’s saturate the masses maybe then they won’t be so classless,
and let’s write down this idea before we forget it in our deep pocketbook…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
In Auschwitz the air hung still.
The dragons are imaginary.
Once they had their fill.
The only gold fell from the fingers of those now perished chosen ones.
The birds crying relinquished flowers.
Lilies all dressed for death.
The classless funeral attire of the blue stripey pyjama death.
Now the camps be emptied.
Those passed inside be free.
Camp be closed.
All souls released, but still the sky hangs heavily.
May God please bless the free.
(C) Livvi
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
I honestly don't understand
Your riches or your fame
The entire frenzy seems to me
Entirely insane
Your voice sounds ancient and dismal
And drones on with bitter feelings
Truth be told it's not at all
What one might call appealing
I'm not a devoted follower
Who thinks you're simply grand
I think you'd do much better
With a different career plan
Avoid recording studios
Or noisy concert halls
Stay home and count your money
And forget about applause
I know you would tell me
In your snippy classless way
To shut the **** up
And quietly go away
To which I will repeat
My title's earnest cry:
No more "Hello" Adele
It's time to say "Goodbye"
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
I am king of the world, universe and everywhere,
But I have only a hint of power.
So all I can give you is attitude.
Just pointing out injustice
Where I see it.
Classes and castes and religious divides
I see as evils
To be opposed
With all my might.
For sure I’ve little might
Of course,
But I still have the right
To say that it’s all wrong.
Classless society is what we want:
Well anyone who’s worth his, or her salt wants that.
Religious discrimination is another thing
We need to remove
From our way of life.
There are many more evils in our world,
So we must do
All we can
To obliterate them
At every opportunity.
I can’t put this any other way,
Poetic or not,
We have to stand
And fight
Against all that we see
As bad.
For the Common Good.
Paul Butters
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
I'm heaving prose at you and you don't even know it. Like fish jumping into a boat that's empty. Having risen before, being brave would seem easier, lighter maybe. Like great fluff or a fugue of an earthy red wine. My tear ducts are hollow drums, if I could I'd give you a metaphor about weeping, but I'm wept out and worn out. I'm not tired or worn down. I'm an obelisk, or a saber perhaps. I'm good coffee from a specialty roaster, but I come in a to go cup. Coffee should never be consumed from a to go cup.
You're one of those pennies people pay one dollar and one cent for, stretched out with new print on them. At the zoo they can be bought. At places where the middle class can be classless they can be bought.
You were once a starlet. A golden and imperfect deity. I'm still worshipping you. You're my startling ****** but the rigging is busted. Now I'm onto acid washes and back on ivory. Maybe you didn't mean to leave cue cards and question marks like keepsake memories under our bedroom duvet.
I'm only asking for you.
While I **** around each new city in the jargon of a Calder sculpture. I've punched door mice and killed rattle snakes with the heel of my foot. Step on with the right and bring your fingers to your lips. I've been calling good luck for decades now. Julys Septembers and Novembers too.
Just a regular guy with a big ******* rooster.
Some girl said we're swimming for each other in the dark, but I know your eyes have adjusted to the light. Don't compensate for ordinary experiences. Realize what I realize and taste the snow.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
I never met a rapper that was NOT an actor?, or could spell for that mater, its chapter after chapter, of the foolish factors of classless babblers, talking the talk, stalking the block, with no knots in their pockets, locking the flock, to the same ol dumb **** its redundancy in abundance, its fun, its the fumbling and stumbling of an idiot on the run, on my sentences with cleverish senses, commencing a commitment to the trenches, of my solo sessions, of the same ol dumb ****
Same old dim wit, running this **** into the ground, making a name, and destroying the sound, in profound love of my ol dim-lit town of drowning suns, and hippie drums, rain bound, in howl to a moon that seldom makes it through, but when it do, it means more to you, to be continued ...
Never mind im through.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
~~~
*A rich woman
Walked down the street
She met a workman she didn't greet.
But though they didn't
Stop to TALK
They were able
To exchange THOUGHTS...*
Hey! Look at me! I'm all that!
Think you're cool with that
baseball hat?
I'm in my designer clothes
I'm Dior from head to toe.
I have snakeskin shoes
And pure silk pants
My perfume comes
From Paris France...
**Designer Bags and golden rings
Jeweled tiaras and a
Real mink coat?
What to do with such trivial things?
Except wallow in the
Superficial joy they bring...
Please. Humour me
With stacks of DOUGH
That's street lingo
For cash you know.
I'll sit here and strum my guitar
Whilst I look up
And count the stars...
Please... take your spoils and go...
I don't have time for spoiled souls
I'll enjoy the things that matter most
While you celebrate
charades and toast.**
If life's a charade,
At least I'm a player!
You're sure not gonna
Run for Mayor!
C'mon DOUGH BOY
You know that you want
All the goodies that we flaunt!
Yes... I have a real MINK!
And my money has a STINK
But who supports
The people you are?
Why! You're nothing but
Shiftless POOR!
**I ain't gotta pay
to play this game
I got a Full Heart I'm all IN!
You can't just buy
Yourself some PEACE
I've learned life lessons
To pay my lease!
Your whole life is inside your wallet
And I'm sorry... but I must call it...
Inside your soul is
bankrupt and foreclosed
It's sad to see happiness is posed
Shiftless, classless and
OUT OF STYLE
But your pretty golden pennies
Ain't worth my while...
You've got cash, but it's just CRASS
Lady. Take your fortunes and
KISS MY BOOTS!!!**
WELL! I *never!
The last thing she thought
As she hurried away.
She's filthy rich NOW...
... but one day she'll PAY.*
(C) SoulSurvivor
(C) Frank Ruland
~~~
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
doesn't matter how i hold it,
liquor in my hand brings shame to the man
i've sat at hundreds of dinner tables,
watched the women politely drink their water,
nobody stops their husbands from making fools of themselves
and my father takes pride in never having asked to be picked up from a bar
there's so much more i expect in a good man than sobriety
i drink to forget, more often to mourn than celebrate
i am classless, i am not marriage material anymore
it's 1:15 in the morning, and i see brown curly hair
and heartbreak wearing it like a costume
approaching me
6'2" and probably a little younger than me
still, he gets to be the tower
even though i've been here longer
you can't hear wedding bells in a place this loud
i took a (tequila) shot in the dark, and kissed him like i meant it
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 2:36 AM UTC
Rio Olympics
No more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio,
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,
where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,
Son,
you don’t know me,
allow me to introduce myself,
I’m Aaron Lux I’m a writer,
and I believe knowledge is wealth,
stealth lover yes,
not a stealth fighter jet,
because if you ask me how we can stop ISIS,
I’ll say let’s release the Happy Mist,
they’ll just call it Happy Clouds,
serious as a heart attack with Cirrus clouds of Happy Mist,
or better yet,
Nimbus clouds,
and citrus sounds,
our reigns begun,
this is a flood not trickle down,
no more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,
where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,
and speaking of sun,
we are live at the Apollo,
like the Greek God of the same name,
trying to fill all theses hearts we meet that are hollow,
hello,
do you want something to believe in,
well how about world peace,
for the people and the planet that we live on,
honestly,
and that is why when I see war,
I don’t think the only way to stop it is violence,
because if you fight fire with fire then you’ll burn the whole world down,
and I’m an eager volunteer fire fighter that’s first in and a final finalist,
where is the Happy Mist,
let’s cover the gun smoke with love soak,
let’s saturate the masses maybe then they won’t be so classless,
and let’s write down this idea before we forget it in our deep pocketbook…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
We all saw you on TV. See
we all felt you, on TV.
We effectually react/ or change the channel.
Seeing with, you and I, we seeing
we share science, we know bits
of many common childhood mystery
religion moralizing stories, animating
representative good and evil having beings,
eaters of roots and seeds;
eaters of blood, raw flesh;
eaters of the processed meat, made
from what clams eat, while making pearls
worth the merchant's speculation, see,
look, if this pearl were thine to own, yours
alone. If this pearl were thine, to form
using layering lightflex laminate fluid to form,
smooth curve force to mollify vitious spikes
as one creature soothes the pain caused,
when a certain signal calls for pearling,
biometric symbiotic gnosisnot using
a natural pattern found in viscous,
snottish fluids flowing just above
the bottom line reality, priced per
one man estimated ethos, may
haps, taken and called granted, per
happenstance, standing, there take it,
weigh the worth, at least, it cost you
this much attention, and left
an edge to look over…
take this thought,
taste test, notice salt, hmmm.
-- such taste, sweet
-- such taste sharp, and bitter…
Notice sticky hook to any attention paid
-- remember, re
member reading for all the roles…
This Is Your Life,
unforgiveable forethought odd after effect.
-- taste and see, we all are good, our lies are evil.
Novels in genres, are stories in familiar
feeling places. The realmmmm re-creational
master of monstors degrees, stages, steps,
tic to last held thought, ties to all held thoughts,
- who buys horror and shame hero stories?
- who buys cops are Platonic Guardians stories?
- who buys we, that people, are stories?
Vicarious as the pope,
we feel the ef
in efforting to display the glory of knowing.
- ceasing to effect the art's official form of love,
- sincere affection, effectively applied plasterwise.
Nothing new, sort of classless, drivel, driving assumptives
sorted on commonalities, professional confession,
yes, we guessed you exist, so we said
I do this for money, or
no,
I do this to make pearls, when something in me
is grinding at my gut, make, make, make me,
a pearl none shall ever see,
make me, think.
On earth, as in my own peace of mind, let it be.
Awen. Amen, and all the other translations of make it so.
Dec 15, 2022
Dec 15, 2022 at 2:50 PM UTC
Classless
Don’t you know who you are? The face is not thine alone
You come from a long line your disregard forgets
Those who built your name for honor they fought and won
It was not placed in your hand to be squandered simple one
Your looks what waste when ignorance is there found
You took privilege and threw it to the ground
This noble name a standard once held now lost and bound
Take it to prison bars will train give voice to losses refrain others it will prove sound
Money poured out without discretion is not wealth
You show by action and deed your true health
Fixed by the stars in ancient realms they to wore a garland wreath
History could have been your guide waste all that is left to bequeath
Your story now a sad read just a marred edition
You have given the words to a sad rendition
Poor little rich girl you seem to keep with tradition
Wasted moments spell lost hours what a contradiction
We all have so few days they are precious and golden
A sacred trust that should make us always beholden
You defame the family name that richly lies broadly unfolded
Go back to you heritage their you will find the loss and know what you sold
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
Overman—
Follow you the music of a generation
Premonitions of the culture
Constantly unseating one another
At the throne beneath your soapbox?
Quarrel you with Parrish Priests and
Local Lords and
Moneyed Many and
Other Overmen?
Overman—
Speak you in uncommon tongue
Through veils of bourgeois idols
Through clouded visions blinding you to pleas from those beneath
Through impenetrable barriers about your plywood castle?
Overman—
Reject you any god lain at your feet,
Any miracle as trivia,
Any sincerity as foolishness,
Any ethnic pride as blasphemy,
Papal Pagan figureheads as absurdity?
Overman—
Have you children born unnaturally,
Brothers cross the moonlit gulf,
Sisters of incestuous intimacy,
Fathers of musical prowess,
Mothers of a warm genetic lab?
Overman—
Your day is coming
One hundred million of you
In synchronistic harmony
Of uniform variety
Of classless social rigidity;
Becoming one with the orbital network,
A single entity to govern life among the planets,
An immortal computer god
Expanding past the reaches of
The spent and worn-out orb
That keeps revolving, spiraling downward,
Closer, closer to the sun—
Overman, will you outlive them all?
Overman, you were there first,
Will you be the first beyond?
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 7:50 PM UTC
Who.
Is this being alone and alive.
Not posh.
A usual female.
That she is not.
An idiots' brain,
That she has not .
Just unaware.
Who she is.
Or what she's meant to be.
She finds drunks, skunks and rampant punks.
A few with words in common.
So,
Just where does she fit.
In a world of made up pleasantries.
Generally full of it.
Her real life full of imbeciles.
She is really down to earth.
Dug them up.
Hell she is no snob.
Needs another with a brain.
Not just another flipping ****
Converges with the low life's.
Making them believe they matter.
Increasing being snooty if needed.
Looking down her snotty nose.
In truth she is the same.
Heavens be praised.
They fell back in the mire.
Where all the dreams fell.
Enough time spent with drunks and skunks.
Don't know where I'm supposed to fit.
Guess no-one knows.
The crux of it.
Hell who gives a f**k!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
With the Passion of Cassius smashin' the classless and the facist
With the vernacular of Malcolm and paired with such passion the outcome attacks with tact and impact because in it's very nature it is offensive
With the cosmic knowledge of Albert, but we do not speak in relativity,
Only what is exactly no biased or levity
With the strength of a million men, no, a million pens, because I'm told the word is mightier than the sword,
But I've seen a man bring a pen to a fight and swiftly his life was no longer his right but a privilege he had once taken for granted
And the man who brought a sword to fight with honor was honored to die from a distant spiraling bullet because even the art of war has evolved beyond civility
That's why I wear Teflon vests, but never a mask, to make sure they look me in the eyes to get rid of me...
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC