Enough is enough! |
Dippin' quills to clicking pens- time to write a story about a mother fucker that deserves no glory. Plaster his face, his name 'cross the land like he's the one we need to hold on high. Fuck that! I'm not listening to the rubbish from your pen that trickles like the ink flowing from my back. Boredom clenches me in its jaws, and I read the propaganda, feeling brain cells running for their lives. This infection brings about a clamoring fever causing deafening screams to be hurled from the depths of my lungs. My conscience in anguish and my cortex quivering in doubt- who am I to believe? Who? Who? I read the responses... overwhelming bravado. Now I must strike back! You will hear my call. I will offer my words with no inhibitions and even say "Go ahead and print my motherfucking lines!" You read and chide me, saying "Read this. Digest that." I'll stick to my volition and offer a compromise. What do I get for that? "Hell no, you rotten bitch!" Stunned, bemused and totally abashed, I seek to find if anyone will pay me any mind. Good news! There's hope! People will listen to what I have to say. I have support, and now I feel a weight lifted from me. Turn around, and what I see is more props against me. The machine continues to churn out the ink in his name. It goes trickle trickle trickle as it's paraded for the masses. To think I had a hope... I'd never felt so alive! The ribbons, the praises- they drown my fleeting hope in a puddle of praise for the angle that dominates empowers manipulates and drowns out the calls for balance. FUCK MANIPULATION! I refuse to take it! I won't bow to the whim of your "mercy". I shall show what it means to have an independent mind and that the virtues of hard work and tough love are the things that help us overcome. But you rape my pen, rob it of its life. You refuse to let my words be shouted across the plains of the place I've called home for so long. I feel my faith trickle away like the ink down my back as it fades fades fades fades away I miss my power, the power of ink as it s l i p s f r o m m y v e i n s. i'm dead. |