Poetry-Thing Thursday: Burdened Shoulders

The figure of an adult,
and the mind of a child:
what a pitiful waste.
What an unfortunate slight.

To have been born with a silver spoon,
tucked firmly beneath one’s tongue,
so that no matter one’s ignorance,
they might always carry on.

We’ve surpassed evolution.
Made obsolete natural selection.
All by virtue of intelligence,
and this is the price we pay.

What a burden!
To live the life of one,
whose whole world is fortune,
and opportunity.
And then for that one,
to besmirch themselves,
and choose mental mediocrity.

What is the definition of a fool?
The one graced with all,
yet still achieving nothing,
or the one whom allowed such?

The answer,
is as simple as it appears.

So take pride in your mind,
for it may rest above burdened shoulders,
but so long,
as it is put,
to good use,
it shall never be squandered.

That is more than can be said of some…

Bonus Poem Double Feature: Part 1- We’ll Rise as One

Sit upon a throne,
and taste the power.
Never atone,
be forced to cower.

Trampled underfoot,
we rise as one.
Whether in silence,
or loud as a gun.

Tell your lies,
and pull your strings,
for we despise,
unnatural things.

But sooner or later,
we’ll rise as one,
see through your smoke-screen
and your illusion.

Backed by hate,
and paper greed,
you deflate,
when faced with need

This world is ours.
We and it are one.
You will fade,
like the setting sun.

Opiate the masses,
with your vile succor,
separate the classes,
and rejoice with liquor.

But never forget,
we’ll rise as one,
against your kind’s regime,
forever, until we’ve won.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: To Rhythm and Blues

To Rhythm and Blues,
I’ve paid my dues,
with 12-barre chords,
while wishing for hordes,
of screaming fans,
‘fore the piper pans.

And as for the rains,
I’ve known great pains,
from both love and hate,
and perilous fate,
whose puppetry strings,
give impression of wings.

But upon my hunched back,
wounds from the hack,
of a hallowed sharp axe,
that required blood-tax,
to free me from,
those guileless scum.

The ones that I mean,
you’d never foreseen,
with tarot card,
nor prescient bard.
They came from man,
did conscience ban,

until at last,
is became past,
was became when,
and love was made sin.
What a woeful deceit,
disguised as a treat,

and dressed in white,
preaching of light.
A martyr’s burden,
became money’s verb’n,
with all of their might,
they ordered us to fight.

Not in defense,
nor in good sense,
but for something imagined–
A creature with badge and,
toting a deathly steel rod.

And then had the nerve to call it a God.

Bonus Poem: Sold Our Soul For Oil

This country,
sold its soul,
for oil,
and jet-black coal.

We polluted the land
and perverted our rights,
for illusory security,
and cold, dying nights.

Were we not so young,
we might not be forgiven.
But we will not be,
unless we take action.

We watch puppet shows,
elect their prettiest lad or lass,
but they’re all the same–
a hand up their ass.

Then we let the rich
walk across our backs,
trample our faces in mud,
and drown us ‘tween the cracks,

of a system we built,
but they bought and paid for,
what shame we should feel,
despite all our labor.

So much for,
the land of the free,
and home of the brave–
if only we’d see,

that such platitudes fail,
when faced with the truth;
that rich oil barons,
and religion’s uncouth.

Until then I guess,
we’ll all have to accept,
that the rich will get richer,
by snapping our necks.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Shadows to Run

Decker?
More like Drekker;
A pile of festering filth in the night,
That’s rotted and writhing just out of sight,
from a neural-shocked matrix dump made out of light.

Corporate stooges, suits and wage-slaves,
all for creds from the brazen and brave,
he who’s in shadows runs to their grave
but is never en-chained nor known to be knave.

A ballad of futures where fortunes forgot,
those on the bottom that secured them their spot.
Is it a vision, a feature, a nightmare, or not?
Or is it our future on our heels that is hot?

The anarchic flux of states and of coin,
all at the mercy of the soft corporate loin.
For the common man it’s little but a kick to the groin,
a star-hot, bright visage, they’re never to join.

Magic bejeweled an eclipse of two worlds,
that joined at both tops and bottoms unfurled,
enmeshed to give birth to a sixth now hurled,
through death and destruction, the fire it curled.

If you’ve a long hallowed late-night to run,
beneath sewers and brewers, the setting sun,
don’t forget to keep your wits out for some fun,
‘neath the corporate pants of an blinded old nun.

For the night never tires,
nor ends before dawn,
but the sun it is setting,
and you’ve shadows to run.