We do nothing but stroke our ego

In self-praising masturbation.

Standing astounded at our modern marvels, 

At the glorious, amazing accomplishments we made.

We have the strongest convictions. 

We are the most advanced, civilized people to date,

Everyone before us nothing, but dumb savages.

 

The only thing I can marvel at is our self-delusions.

 

We perfected democracy.

Justice reigns supreme,

So long as both parties are social equals, justice is just.

No progress since the code of Hammurabi,

Loopholes just concealed better at first glance.

The rich still bribe, threaten and weasel out, scot-free.

While the same crime has another penniless executed.

 

At least Babylonians were honest about it.

Given the chance we would happily burn and stone,

Or at least sit back and do nothing, watching,

Afraid to challenge the status quo and traditions.

 

Entanglement with other countries to be avoided,

We do not help the susceptible,

Only those allies with value, wealth, and natural resources.

Greed festers and drives us as much as our ancestors.

We're still slaves to all that glitter, living the truest lie.

 

We don't have strength, only aggression.

We're not compassionate, just polite.

Not loving, we do not embrace one another, only tolerate.

We're not free, but licensed, copyrighted.

Concerned more about ownership than real advancement,

Squabbling over whose name is attached and immortalized.

 

Our minds are lost to social control, 

Daring not to see behind deceit, 

Not looking past common perceptions. 

 

We're nothing more than well trained denialists.

Do not take silence as a form of a response,

It is neither an affirmative nor refusal.

My silence is nothing more than a lack of response,

Certainly not an invitation to assume assent and proceed

Ahead with your self-interested whims.

 

I do not know how to possibly

Phrase this. My decline is lodged

Deep within, trapped in my throat

And unable to make it past my tongue.

I cannot form a proper protest, 

Nor find the words to express my dissent.

 

You put me at odds against myself,

My Primordial self conflicts with my

Intellectual self. Both vying for triumph,

For control of my being.

 

Once Primordial me has had its earthy hunger slaked,

The Intellectual me regains control, 

Reigning command once more.

 

Primordial me is soon assailed with

Regrets, guilt and fazed by the feeling of unsafety.

The duty of warding falls to Intellectual.

Cloaking myself against the harm from the

Distressing infliction of offense. 

 

It takes upon its task laudably,

Allowing me to carry on

Until I reach my refuge,

When Morpheus takes supremacy

Over all. Then the Primordial slips

Into my body, discharging its anguish.

My pillow is besotted

With discharge from my oculi.

In northern country

they have cold weather,

but even colder still are

the hearts of people.

 

They live with few possessions.

Harsh, brief, short, poor lives

that melt away quicker

than a snowflake.

Their lives are briefly noted,

unremarkable, they fall into

a snow bank, indistinguishable

from the rest.

 

They nail shut pine boxes,

hiding them deep.

Praying for the Earth's protection,

to keep unnatural beasts

from walking once more.

 

Wreaths of garlic

adorn their doors,

keeping away the bloodsuckers.

 

They stone to death

an old lady whose cat, black

follows her a little too closely.

 

They soon find the mark

that her familiar suckled from.

 

Living deplorable lives full of woe,

quick to point their fingers at

their neighbors, accusations nimble

on tongue, they clamor avariciously,

treasuring ill-gotten gains 

they so lustfully coveted, 

never once stopping to pity those 

they have ruined with their gluttony.

Don't look at me.

You'll see my mask slipping,

I fear what will be on my true face.

What lurks beneath this facade of mine

I try so desperately to maintain.

 

I am unhinged.

Disquieted. 

Numb, but both alive and dead.

Unaware.

Oblivious to reality, yet super cognate of everything.

 

I can barely recognize the face staring back at me,

Even though it belongs to me. 

 

This life isn't mine,

Somehow it was botched.

I am to be elsewhere, doing

Something grand. Something more.

 

My cheeks turn up in a 

Tight grimace of a smile, One that

Never reaches my eyes.

 

It is not my face that is staring back

In the mirror. The uncontrolled

Expression of potent animosity,

The ugly, distorted demand of

Revenge, the desire to retaliate, 

To collect justice,

Is all too plain on my face.

 

My body moves of its own accord,

Like a puppet I follow the orders 

Of my body's quenchless need

That consumes me utterly.

Knead, roll

Salt, season

Sprinkle, just a dash

Whip, batter

Roast, bake

 

The table is set, full

But only one sits.

Empty seats filled

With memories as

Dinner guests.

The lack of support, structure

The scarcity of happiness;

Too little, too far apart,

Too easily overwhelmed

The lack of a reachable goal,

Or a fulfilled dream, one where

the pointless, useless, frivolous

nature is revealed.

                                                                        Everything you wanted is nothing

                                                                        to have. Disjointed disjunction

The crashes; too tedious, draining

the absence of motivation; strength.

                                                                        Strength is to have made it

                                                                        Through all of these years.

                                                                        Do not begrudge my release.

Happiness in the end,

Too alluring, sweet comfort in

Eternal nothingness abyss

                                                                        It was a lifelong process,

                                                                        to have my exterior match

                                                                        my interior. Completely barren,

                                                                        We lay down to the final rest.

Behind every fall is

the lack of you. A long line

of those who failed us, 

many deserving of the responsibility

no one wished to have claimed.

 

                                                                        It is a simple truth;

                                                                        Alone

                                                                        it is only a matter of time

                                                                        before we fall.