Let them think
I'm crazy
Indignant
Or in need of God.
Cause they are
The ones who nailed Him
To the crosses
Outside their banks
Each time
They hit an animal
Every evening
When a wife is abused
In the streets
Where homeless cower
And bury their feet
In news
Or hide their face
With baggage
After fighting in
Senseless wars
By the pole
Where they hang
Their reasons
Their flags
Their dangerous pride
Their idols of competitive reasons
Their gospel of cruel ideals
To worship
An entitled many
And continue
The unsettled whole -
This money
This valued paper
This sickening misuse of wealth
It's a means
Of remaining comfortable
While the rest
Are forced to shiver
Grow cold
Or abide by silence
In fear
Of the truth
And law.
Ask yourself -
Am I really
Offensive?
When the majority
Are just scraping by
But barely even
Finding solace
In the bullshit
Their parents fed
Greedy
Perpetually taking
Forever in love with death
Commuting
Fighting
And waking
To repeat it all
In the morning
Again
Wasting their time
At offices
Waiting
For inevitable cancers
As their quality of life
Is measured
In the mortgage
And 401K
The amount of friends
They cheated
And partners they screwed
For cash
As the basis
For all this madness
Is said to be
Freedom and happiness
To build
And acquire successes
Though it means
Killing
With fame and "business"
And on Sunday
Being preached
It is "good."
My generation
Has no reason
To smile
To feel obliged
To be dutiful
Or have hope.
We are poor
We are jobless
We are manic
We are products of elders who used.
The dream is
No longer
Tangible.
The vision
Has been rendered
A loss.
As the racists
The old folk
The perpetrators
Go sit at casinos
To die
And waste
The last cent of their
Excess
On a machine
That could feed
All the starving
If just each of them
Paid the poor
Instead.
How the fuck
Do we stop
This madness?
Why do we
Continue
To live?
How can we think
About marriage?
Of children?
Of futures?
Of meaning?
And tomorrow
Will happen
Regardless
Where the masses
Will travel
To labor
Lose sleep
And repeat
All the agony
Just to torture
Themselves
In necessity
For a nauseating
Definition
Of "life."
I'm sorry.
This is
Anything but.
Keep telling
Yourself
It is.
- J. Pigno
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryThis is a poetry book made from people who request to put their own poems in here to any poem I find online. It is made for people to share and express their thoughts and emotions. *NONE OF THESE POEMS BELONG TO ME* (REQUESTS ARE CLOSE)
