Monday 14 December 2015

A dose of Hypocrisy

Man, I'm sick of poets writing poems about how dope their poetry is,
I'm sick o'them forcefully dragging emotions along with them to freak shows just to show off their fucked up senses of metaphorical fashion.
I'm sick o'those painting their faces with nonmatching colors o'passion a desperate call for approval.
Yellow smiles, red excitement, and tears too blue to be true.

I'm tired of love poems.
And I guess love poems are tired too,
Burdened with so much wordplay, so many tongue twisters, and way too heavy metaphors for a love poem to still look, feel, and sound like a love poem.

And, I'm getting tired of words,
How they betray their creators and turn against them,
Shred the writer apart and take all the messages they were suppoused to deliver and burn em,
What good is causing a stage mayhem if it wasn't you behind the mic?
What good is writing a thousand bloody lines to explain what something feels like when you don't even know how it feels?

But I don't blame them,
I don't blame words, writers, pens nor phone screens,
I don't blame metaphors, rhymes, nor word schemes,
I don't blame music, singers, bands nor solo musicians,
Not the media, not the west, not aliens, not even the illuminati,
I don't blame us. I don't blame me, I don't blame you, and..I don't blame our parents even though we're only taking the steps they once took before...

It's a marsh after all,
And it's... less of a civilization more of a freak parade.
Can't you spectate? Look around you...
There's a set of definitions for normal that we all work our asses off to live up to,
Yet no one reaches it.
And if you can't make it, you fake it,
So I guess that makes us less of a society, more of a masquerade:
Manmade massproduced humane flesh that we pay so much to buy just so we can glue it to our faces just to look human,
And man, should you be careful...
Make sure that you pour enough glue on that face,
Nail that mask to your eyelids, lips, and cheeks,
For if you fail at keeping that mask on, if the temptation of flashing your face to strangers overcomes your willpower to remain lowkey,
Then you'll end up like us, you'll end up like me,
Buried in names and labels, locked in between descriptions and definitions...

Society's unwanted children, its blackest of sheep, adernaline junkies too indulged in their little selfish sins,
The posers, the fakers, the sinners, the pretentious brats and the misguided fucks,
Look at them, trying with what seems a little too hard to fit between misfits,
Rebellion's brakes, tranquility's rebellion,
The stains of mediocrity in literature, the stains of shame in time...

And in time... we end up isolated even from isolation,
Looked down at and frowned upon,
For we're the ones historians trash the most and wipe off the records, and...

I'm getting tired of words,
Getting tired of poems that take us nowhere,
Tired of revolutionary songs and passionate love speeches,
Of the monsters that we hide behind those masks of humanity and their constant screams and screetches of objections... and...

I'm tired of this.