aligned and maligned,
sworn to a cause,
believed higher, proven lower.
All round, inescapable perhaps.
All round, soaked in it,
sort of soaked in lighter fluid,
makes the fire of truth all the more painful.
And so the motive goes,
to the selfish,
not to oneself,
not to one’s health, but…
To the bastards,
to the skilled liars,
the so-called “protectors,”
the amazing disorder.
“So easy for one,”
the “Life Section”—
the newspapers, the television.
No wonder they’re going out of business.
But not fast enough.
But no matter.
It cannot improve past my error,
the bad, the weak freak I am,
for I cannot even prove my existence.
And still, the same old excuse of salesmen,
as if the horrible product is no worse,
as if my disgrace justifies theirs,
and the label obscures the poison.
Their systematic drunkenness
to blindly go where no man’s gone before,
paving new old roads
In calculated, methodical droves,
men and women, scraping the sky,
powerful… but corrupt.
Political games and sides taken
how lies define complication.
But a troublemaker, myself,
unable to make peace, I am forgotten.
Powerless, dead and buried.
I could not stand a chance.
I barely even tried.
Against the war, a partial disbeliever,
yet understanding full well
the necessity of venting.