By: Ben Bielert
Slippery lines, hard to define,
as we unwind in these uncertain times,
always back to the grind, and no time to whine.
When I picked a pack of pickled priorities
who knew that that little kid with problems with authority,
may make mischief more marginally than missing memories.
Set to blast off like space chimpanzees,
there’s no wonder about our simian crash test dummies,
or a generation lost in the space that’s been replaced by conformity.
I can’t write like you, I’m stuck as me,
what is it that I can do to make you see?
I’ve struggled with the confines of my mind, can’t get free.
A prison that intertwines like society,
a world that rewards mediocrity,
but seems to ignore mediocre me.
Breaking free from the rat race,
and coming to terms with the unending waste,
how do you face the pace that is set by a constant chase?
A hunger that’s never satisfied,
or a treaty that can’t be ratified,
ink pooling in the well, never dried.
Constantly chasing some new prize,
a shinier doodad has caught your eyes,
better run after it, it’s a perfect fit, eat up those lies.
Well only deaf ears can meet the cries,
of those who chose not to despise,
but instead have wed their minds to the wise.
Did our time come and pass?
The best days in the past,
and a bleak future coming fast.
This cancer has seemed so benign,
daily we consign ourselves to this decline
and become a concubine, polluting the shrine.
Throw down your tools, take up arms,
disrupt the factories, abandon the farms,
no more marching machine, sound the alarms.
It’s time to wake up, Neo, the Matrix is real,
24 hours of your life a day they steal,
you can’t deny the mass appeal.
A constant parade of distractions
to make you miss the infractions,
and pause any and all actions.
It can’t go on much longer,
being ruled by fear mongers,
they are strong but we are stronger.
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Bloody Well Write 