"disenfranchised" poems
What does it mean to be a Chicano/Latino in the US?
What does it mean to be Black in the US?
What does it mean to be a minority in the States?
You know what that means...it means that we have a lot to prove
As in the words of Booker T. Washington:
"When a white boy undertakes a task,
it is taken for granted that he will succeed.
On the other hand, people are usually surprised
If the ***** boy does not fail. In a word, the ***** youth
starts out with the presumption against him."
Now in a society where institutionalized racism,
Or racism without racists, prevails
We are disenfranchised from even being considered youth.
We are a bunch of wetbacks, idiots, moron...you name it,
Where failure is expected of us...
...but enough is enough, we should not abide to the stereotypes
And stigmas that society stamps on our foreheads.
As a matter of fact, I do not ever recall giving this white patriarchal society
My blessing to call me whatever the **** it decides to call me.
We are here to take manners into our own hands, here to do whatever the heck our heart desires.
We are here to create the change that we wish to see in the world.
We are here to become the few & growing positive statistics that we fight for.
We are here to create voice and shed the light on those wins that we take to our hearts.
No one is here here to reflect the stereotype that this ****** up society
Tries to slap us with on an everyday basis.
We are here to change perception of who we are and where we stand in society.
We are positive statistics...not a stereotype.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
*The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will be live-*
The revelation will be streaming through your Windows
laptops and smartphones.
The revolution will be blogged
Tweeted, liked, shared, RE-blogged RE-tweeted
and Stumbled Upon in between
midnight ************ sessions
sandwiched between funny cat memes.
The resolution will be HD.
It's evolution will be high speed.
The whistles will be blown at with frequency.
The revolution will be commented on;
Scrutinized.
Vandalized.
Scandalized.
Stylized and advertized.
People will pay attention -
People will forget to mention
that some stand up, occupy, riot
and die.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution be streaming live
through the filter of your choice.
The facts will be democratized.
The democracy will be corporatized.
The corporations will personified.
People, objectified -
Spied on and villainized
The powers that be will will lie, deny, and try to justify.
The people will be disenfranchised.
Prisons will be privatized.
Death drones will be utilized.
No one will bat an eye.
Because revolution will be multiplied, over-simplified,
The violence, normalized.
Lives, sacrificed
to satiate the Golden Calf's appetite.
The revolution will not be televised
but Jerry Springer will...
Go figure.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
It started with a pen,
and wound up in English.
No diction, addiction, or
ambition,
to get published.
“Don’t scream and you’ll look normal.”
Screaming “MISOGYNY!”
if screaming at all,
I’ve seen the great minds of
my generation
addicted to Adderall.
Some friends who get wasted,
and I remain sober.
Cheap ‘03 cars, yet,
no ones coming over.
Actors without work now,
no one with opportunity.
Suicidal crazies now,
crafted from 80’s and 90’s responsibility,
and A is for Adderall.
Sugar coated heroine,
designer drugs.
Poor blacks, whites, mexicans,
and asians swept under the rug.
“The father, the son,
the invisible hand.”
Crack in prisons, *****
holy ******* in a BMW,
Feminism, becomes communism,
becomes atheism becomes you.
You so counter-culture,
you forgot about us,
“She’s not an angel friends,
throw her under the bus.”
Politicians in purple now,
blessed American royalty.
Slaughter the disenfranchised,
poor, socialist regime,
and A is for Adderall.
Don’t shoot the police,
shoot the children instead,
or send them to war,
but the war had to end.
“In god we trust, but
in the market we invest.”
So occupy Wall Street,
and get called a hippie,
or occupy college,
and become a dead beat?
In high school you’re told,
be what you will be.
Cancer is still a…
“…”
…Hereditary disease.
Actors without work still.
Politicians lying still.
Suicidal crazies.
Ecstasy filled crazies.
Counter-culture conformist.
Culture conformist.
Eco-terrorist.
Mindless consumer.
Junkies, addicts,
soldiers, students,
leaders, followers,
murderers, democrats,
conservatives, liberals,
republicans, child molesters,
sexists, racists.
No more labels.
It was every single individual.
Individual failure.
One by one, we were all found guilty.
You are guilty. I am guilty,
and
A is for Adderall,
and the new marginalized.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
The Syrian process is a serial problem
When the disenfranchised
Cause a landslide
Of historical hatred
The key that ignites
Business and commerce
Wildfire hearts
And boiling skin
The harsh outbreak of deadly cholera
The blockade of the forceful armada
The coalition forces
Run wild like horses
The bombs keep falling
The people cry
The engine keeps stalling
The car dies
The white phosphorus
Brought by the white prosperous
Can burn to the bone
And wounds can ignite up to three days later
But the people of Raqqa
Are used to reigniting scars
They're used to searing flesh
That melts like tar
Where this will go
No one knows how far
Machines must be sustained
Hearts will be untamed
Lives constantly rearranged
A human rights activist attempts to send a report
What he's witnessed in Raqqa
Injustices; perceived and objective
But Hellfire
Turns the Internet cafe
Into a senseless violence display
The dirt, blood, and bodies
Mixed and spread like the art
That was ignored to lead to this quagmire
Whether this calamity started
At the Melian dialogue
Or a market diagram
Or a martyr's diatribe
What we need now is an m.d. to suture the wounds
But who will save us?
When noble protectors are blown up
And the reigniting scars scorch the hands that heal
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
Gonna move to Qatar
ride in a gold Beemer
playin' songs for the Emir
on a ruby studded guitar.
Live in a silver highrise
go skiing in the desert
eat caviar for desert
singin' about the disenfranchised
and ruby studded guitars.
I'll be an expat in Doha
drinkin' with the monarchy
speakin' absolute malarkey
playin' tunes for all my brohas
on my ruby studded guitar
in Qatar.
r ~ 6/14/14
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.
Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.
The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.
Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.
Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.
Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.
The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal
sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.
Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Some voted for freedom from that rusty EU shackle.
Discussed immigration issues they were unable to tackle.
An establishmentarian North, South divide. When poverty strikes there's nowhere to hide.
Deep trenched anger rising from the disenfranchised vote. The pound devalued as the right wing gloat.
Uncertain times causes a global ripple. Bank of England acts to avoid economic *******
But what of our neighbours? Our brothers in arms? Democratic victors, do they know who this harms?
Young against old, divisions laid bare. Political wrangling, do they really care?
The Prime Minister resigns and a new chapter to be written.
Democracy wins in a diverse, Great Britain.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
Do we, as a people, deserve to be critised?
Have we as a nation become so desensitised
to the plight of those among us who are marginalised?
Do we care nothing for the less well off, the disenfranchised?
Rents and cost of living as high as we have ever known,
numbers on the breadline and homeless have consistently grown,
so many suicides because people feel so desperate and alone,
how can we stand by and let this happen to so many of our own?
So many families torn apart and utterly devastated,
Far too many of our young people reluctantly emigrated,
People losing their homes, heartbroken and humiliated,
There is not much about this country now to be celebrated!
It’s true that during the recession most people lost a lot
But was it the booming economy that really started the rot?
Did we start judging each other by how much each had got?
Was compassion for our fellow man something we forgot?
Though going through hard times we still give much to charity
many services only possible because people work voluntarily
but the government rub their hands together with unashamed glee
Are they right to think our actions absolve them of all responsibility?
Though all of us are struggling, each with so much on our plate
Should we not come together, do something before it is too late?
Surely the plight of these our people should prompt a national debate?
to ensure our government meets the needs of every last citizen of our state.
The frightening thing is, it could so easily be you or I
left unemployed or homeless, or barely scraping by
we cannot just dismiss it, the signs are all there
and if the present is anything to go by, will anybody care?
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:54 AM UTC
People yearn for peace through the night
When they can only see by inferno light
A flame that engulfs the world
But begins in our hearts
We've been tainting this pearl
From the very start
When ****** is part of their plan
I honestly attempt to understand
But the tears I hate flood my brain
When fears create blood and pain
I'm willing to lose my agency
As long as they don't aim at me
We bang our heads on the wall
Until they roll on the floor
They built a ceiling so we'll fall
So we can't reach the door
I am no longer the man inside the estate
When I'm disenfranchised by the state
So I'm pushed to society's outskirts
For the people with whom I flirt
And my perceived net worth
But where one society ends another begins
And they all claim that I've committed sins
So I wander around
Just not inside towns
Where the bullets fly like the accusations
And productivity drains all inspiration
I live in the remote wilderness now
I hoped things wouldn't be so loud
I hear drum beats in the distance
They're explosions killing infants
But there's nowhere else to turn
And my lawn is starting to burn
Must I deal with the chaos colossus
Or could I continue playing possum?
Must I stare into the fiery abyss
To make it onto heaven's list?
Must I return to the mainland
To experience my final stand?
I will wrest sovereignty from them
I will rest in poverty until then
But I would rather have less money
Than subtract family members
They say you draw more flies with honey
But all the flies die in December
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 3:25 AM UTC
is it right to follow the law
if it is not right?
is it just to dole out justice
with a lady liberty lacking sight?
when so many are the disenfranchised
and the majority of wallets, tight
is a moratorium ending
harming or mending?
where is the break in our dark
someone illuminate rational light
for the contrast is stark
between those who laze
and those who fight
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 4:50 PM UTC
Are you lonely after a divorce?
Not as lonely as you were before,
Are you ever going to 'do it' again, mate?
Yes, if you get really desperate,
Shall you ever remarry, missing it?
Yes, if you are a total *********
Post trauma, post divorce,
Disenfranchised, just like before!
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams
drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday
arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets
leading to the septic tank of tomorrow.
Resplendently dressed in rhetoric
silk woven by congenial weevils
frantically fed on gypsum and diesel
weaving verbosity with loquacity
table a motion to make independence illegal;
keep the status quo unequal between certain people.
There once was a dream called change
proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some
restrained and contained as hyperbole by others
the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained
the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame
as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots
and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames
as history repeats itself
and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots
the first act as a welcome back
into the fold of the commonwealth .
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
I think she lost a part of herself,
picking up the pieces. And that's
okay; the universe works because
something is given for
something to be gained.
Her parents were red-blooded
Americans; they drank confirmation-
bias and the minimization of minorities.
They would make her problems as small
as the countries, they couldn't find on a map,
but could find in their hearts to demonize.
Oh yes, the demons: what used to
afflict her and corrupt her pure heart.
To them, she wasn't a teenager --
a child -- stressed from carrying a
family, featuring a mother with
a brain tumor; guest starring
'I-stunt-your-growth-with-Jesus'
as the understudy for mental
health awareness.
No, she wasn't a child; she was
a burden because she cut herself,
because her legs grew too thin;
as thin as the crucifixes around
the proud, turning necks, holding
dismissive heads of 'Why-would-
you-want-to-be-dead' Christians
and 'I-don't-understand-what-isn't-
in-the-Bible' fat, white relatives.
To make things short as her
life could have been: she dipped
in and out of drugs, featuring
****** and pills that would
dip in and out of her body,
like a fool's gold life jacket,
soaking in the waves of her
pale, transitioning to adulthood,
twenty year-old waters.
She saved herself, and
they thanked God and the
boy and mostly everyone
else but her. And the little
brother sat, sinking in a seat
softer than his deep-seated
hateful beliefs. But, the
truth is that she saved not
only herself, but also the
handsome, white, tall,
smart, talented image of
'Holy-shit-what-a-tall-
drink-of-privilege.' A
tall drink who cared for
her more than the country
cared about being right; who
loved her more than the parents
of the degenerates living in some
unknown collection of poems about the
disenfranchised and American angst.
She was a protest, very wondrous;
a halting of the longest dark,
a breath of fog floating towards
a lonely, very deep pond.
And she was only beginning.
And it was all very exciting.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC
There is a fundamental hardness
In this body, strapped between my legs.
Feminine energies from within warp
The fragile bounds of reality around me.
But what right do I have with *****
To summon the mother, call myself woman?
Every right.
My peoples told a tale closer to people
Still with connection to the heavens,
Roles for everyone. Gods did not deny
Their existence over time like some do.
But I deny the gods and dogmas and
I'm disenfranchised from my tribe
As a ghost in the machine in the very
Heart of western Christianity's
Destiny.
I get hard. It's not a problem. I cup my
******* in silent reminder with the
Dimmest hope of finding love and family.
Just as my elders, I live and speak at fires
Now write it, too, through ill, darkness in day.
All of the time I put into trying not to die,
It fashions me.
It fashions me.
I write the same words over and over telling
Stories of sadness and anger to outcast strangers.
I traded the ease of violence for pixel and ink,
So please take the words,
Unburden me.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
Disenfranchised nation, stand together, hold your brothers up!
Advantage lies overseas!
Third world work ethic can keep profits from plummeting!
Eat in the restaurants you work in!
Pick up your trash, along with the city's!
Buy the books your students need!
Employee discount is considered a raise!
No smoking!
Wrap your third-degree burn with your third degree!
Start to think about getting a job overseas!
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
There's a void for the intellectual when poor
Awareness only makes it worse
Knowing the socio-political mechanism
Controlling us and keeping our physical bodies bound
Only begs our mind to give up its emancipationist stronghold
The Spirit is only torn between
A socio-politically created reality
And the dis-associated self-edification of blind opportunity and hope
Becoming politically and sociologically aware
Of our "selves" within the context
Of our society is dangerous
Crippling, knowing the power behind the scenes
Submission corners an individual into indoctrination
Amorality seems to be the make-up of the seemingly strong
When every fiber of morality is subtly stolen
To assimilate into or right the wrong
Of the ******* up socio-political mechanism of our world
Either way, there's no way out
You're always tainted with the plague of amorality
The spirit is bought and sold
For the commercialization of it is dehumanizing to all
Any which way it can be analyzed
The rationality of the mind
Is dismantled piece by piece
Until it is absent from coherent thought
Knowledge is a weapon dangerous to the enemy
As well as the self
For truth is a burden deadly to the bound
By Disenfranchisement
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 5:08 AM UTC
I envisage a Planet Earth,
All multicultural, for what it's worth,
One human race, of café au lait,
Putting the boot into prejudice today,
No more disenchanted refugees,
Grass is always greener, if you please,
The shifting sands of humanity,
No more disenfranchised second class,
True equality of life at last,
I do dream big, you see,
One global race, free from bigotry.....
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
I graduated fresh and ****** from my mother's womb,
a gift, greater than any other.
My sister before me too.
My brother after me was swallowed up by Him
mere hours after drawing his last breath his first.
Behold:
This is my unambiguous declaration against
this universal truth: my unparalleled defense
of the dignity of man
against the temperature-empty, relentlessly inhuman
universe unconcerned with these ventures
which characterize knowing it
not. For one day I shall call
my teachers by their first names. One day
they shall call me doctor. This is the totem
declaring the worth of the living and the dead,
my sister and my brother: myself. The totem
of the disenfranchised and barely and disabled
and black. Even also less including I guess
the enriched the cup overfloweth and mighty
and colourless. Our skin and bones and graves
and blood and ****** and lust and chest and
******* and being and nothing and isness is
beautiful
regardless of everything. It is mine.
It is yours. It is yours.
Votre.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
i hear the whistle of a mockingjay
play every time someone says your name.
a rebel girl in a patriarchal world
defying the absurd iterations of hyper-masculine
oppression that manifest themselves in solipsistic
displays of impotent aggression.
how do you muster the compassion
to forgive seventy times seven?
i want to learn to love like you.
the white noise fades away
when you and i fly
down the interstate.
the breeze teases
your hair, the sun
kisses your face
the way i'd like to.
i hope you hear my voice
every time one of our favorite songs
gets stuck inside your head,
singing in time to the rhythms of love requited.
have faith in me.
and i'm trying hard—
real hard—every day
not to lose my temper
with these circumstantial quandaries
that leave us wondering whether or not
we should press pause.
instead i'll climb the mountains
of your vertebrae so i might find
a resting place in the holiest of holies.
if only i could shrink myself down,
dance between the synaptic gaps of your brain cells,
i could see reality through your eyes—
twirling like twin nebulae,
galaxies inviting me to endless epiphanies.
i want to lose myself in your universe.
your courage is infectious.
when i hold your hand,
i summon the strength to smash the State
and all the arbitrary authorities
trying to dictate the limits of liberty,
that instigate injustice and propagate malice.
it all just falls away until it's you and me,
forever us against them all.
you're like Hermione,
time-turner included,
feeding the homeless,
leading a women's health group,
acting for a short film,
directing a play,
writing a novel,
all in a day's work.
and you breathe white-hot fire
when you fight for the disenfranchised
recognizing that those who are neutral
in situations of injustice have chosen
the side of the oppressor and it's quite
impressive how you stand-up for
the little guy or invite the social acolyte over
to your table to have a bite of whatever
vegetarian dish you cooked up last night.
i see you on the silver screen,
in each new book i read ,
in every single note i sing,
latent remnants in recited rhymes
of poetry from the one and only Bukowski:
i found what i love
and i want it to **** me.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
I had a guest to dinner,
It was a Nietzch ghost.
The ghost brought with him five volumes,
A stranger barring gifts in the night.
In civility i poured him tea and examined these books.
The first book was a Book of Contradictions.
A book that called for morality and peace,
But it was laid in the path of genocide and hate.
A disheartening tale of the Gott that grew to the point of oppression.
The second book was titled the Tot of Gott.
A book of the slaying of the oppressor.
The fall of the mighty by the disenfranchised man,
In its effort to cover all, the controller spread himself to the point of destruction.
The third book was the Book of Cosmic Emptiness.
A book of a speck, a book of existential glory.
It showed however grand our perspective,
We are small and empty.
The fourth book was a Book of Mirrors.
In it i saw everything and nothing.
The world around me was so clear,
But i knew nothing of myself.
The final book was the most perplexing.
Unlike the book of mirrors it was empty as the “o”.
Page after page of emptiness, lonely of words,
Save the corner of the last page which said “Your Tale”
I looked up and the ghost smiled,
A bizarre smile of accomplishment.
It took Its tea and softly rose, for the door.
It never said a word but why would it.
I wonder what my tale will be.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
You throw around words
like "hopeful" and "dreams"
but I find myself doubting your certainty
of their meaning
Words full of such desire
might only be realised
by the down-trodden and brokenhearted
the ones left alone, behind,
or otherwise disenfranchised
You will truly know hope
when you feel there's none left
and your dreams
will become much more truthful
after unending nightmares
Just give it time.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
the desperado cowboy-poet awakes
anxious, needing-ending relief,
the craving greater than great,
he begs-raggedly, with Raggedy handily Andy words,
to all and anyone in the aroused surrounded vicinity,
give please give, of something to write
the bay, soothingly plays the would-be author,
"place me, look my way,
have I not droplets endless
from which you've drunk exquisitely,
so many more to fair share"
the birds twit and flit,
raucous caucus demanding
to be seated
by the tablet's keypad
to gain entry
to one more congressional natural tribute
the sky and sun organize a
joint session, extraordinary mission;
"we are the first of your day,
thus primarily,
we win the primary,
deserving in your recording of our
nomination as the first day's
sound and light show victorious"
sorry folks,
got a better tale to tell,
natural in its way,
titillating, and quite suitable
for reputating Au Naturel humanity
and it's a quirky, say hey tale,
morning coffee fresh,
a first word report from an
untelivised convention
of a different kind of congressing
awoke to find the:
*chauffeur in bed with the cook,
the Poppy, beside the sleeping Nana,
the poet, eyeing the lying next to him, tango dancer,
the classicist eyeing the sleeping moderne,
ditty ditsy Ogden Nash astride a Shakesperian sonnet,
the thinning gray line defending his bedded half,
from an invading horde of unionizing blonde tresses,
the republican with the democrat,
the conservative with the liberal,
heated discussions, non-neutralizing negotiations
conducting and watched by
peeping tom skies, clouds, birds and waters
pretending to fly flow past*
wow
now that,
is quite interesting
deserving worthy of a
disrobing disputatious disreputation,
very newsworthy and why not,
a poem all its own?
the bay waved goodbye,
the birds disbanded in silence,
quietly disenfranchised.
the sun and the sky hung around
pretending to be UN neutrality observers
wearing cute blue and white helmets
looking every where but not,
at the line of demarcation
the beggar, by his new impoverishment, enriched,
another love poem writ,
niched and pitched
one more itch,
so very well scratched
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Memories of my freedom, remind me
Of the stories of my ancestors.
Roaming wild and free beyond the trees,
The sprawling Serengeti rivers believe
In the magic of the beast.
Undulating plains masking terror and blood shed,
In and amongst the interwoven, lions brown and grass
Our **** our savour, the brilliance of blood splattered,
In an unfair fight,
For years it is all I have known.
But it is the right to roam,
The lands are our home,
We were free, the rulers elite,
Highly amongst the kingdom they speak of us,
And yet there beyond the trees,
Lies a dark malicious enemy, intelligence
Unknown, but vast,
Disenfranchised us of our lands and our birth rights,
Has built a fence, around my youth and intellect.
Now stripped I stand there – lost in thought,
Everything has changed – fraught
With tears and upset.
For we no longer rule the world –
It is in the hands of uncertainty borne.
And now I have had to grow up
Believing we are not alone.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 10:43 AM UTC
We paint our lives on color film
Absorbing familiar reflection
And we watch as we live
So little in color film
We love, we ****
We bleed, we die
Do we think God is watching?
Do we think we are the reflection
Why are we watching?
Mountain sides and Lilly beds
Prairies and the mighty ocean
Now held in our hands
Nobody is there
Is anyone here
What is everyone watching?
Loneliness painted in window sills
Plasma radiation gleams on
White, pictureless walls
Millions
Watching sunsets
And passions flame
Lust pervert
Warm golden skin
Radiates tangerine
And the lonely feel
Vicarity
Painting red
On Blank slates
And fill with vacant desire
Million of on lookers
Alone, watching
Watching the world burn
Watching mothers cry
Watching beaches sludge
Watching deserts snow
Watching brave children die
Watching brothers betray
Watching love fail
Watching countries fall
Watching debts paid
Millions of miles of tapes and bits
Project a millions of protestant cries
Endlessly, eternally
Do we think God is watching?
Do we think?
While we're watching
Bathing in radiation
Children don't know how to read
Live their lives on
A television screen
A whole generation
Living vicariously
Do we think?
Millions of gray souls
And avid voters
Watch angry men spout nostalgic redirect
Watch their children live their lives
Watch game shows and advertisements
Watch the six o' clock news
Watch police shoot children in the street
A million beautiful, lonely people
Watch red carpet vanity
Watch million dollar celebrity parties
Watch the American dream lash the
Backs of the fuedal and disenfranchised
Watch depraved souls sacrifice self
For the company of fame
Meanwhile children don't read
Do we think?
A thought original
Is there any thing left to believe
Everyone so sure there's nothing they haven't seen
Nobody leaves their house
Nobody can bear to read
Just watch the world slip into insanity
Ignorance is the greatest weapon
Yet all I see is guns blazing
80 billion dollars to dry the desert
Not a one for education
American families gather
Around their TV screens
They can't stop watching
They're afraid of what they see
Do they think God is watching?
I hope God isn't watching
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC