A Poem: A Man Sits with his Beliefs
A man, at home, on his couch,Head low, pen in hand, shoulders slouched.
Thoughts run round his head,
A pauper's playground filled with dread.
He dosen't know how the story goes,
He's been writting now for years,
He looks for the shows
And listens for tells
Writes words that flow
Gently rock him to and fro
His mind is on the ropes
His mind is in sedition
He had high hopes and vast ambitions
He felt his life was a sacred mission
His plan, though, defied fruition,
The bait's still out, his soul is fishing.
He thought he could change the world
With his words
Now he wants only to make ends meet
He prays for his voice to be heard
And wishes instead of bean curd
He had some meat to eat
Now he's desperately looking for answers
Apart from the banter
That fills the air, the press and all the rest
Of modern western culture.
It preys on doubt,
It feeds on fear,
It hovers like a vulture,
Ready to devour culture,
And turn everyone into cut-out boys and cut-out girls.
Every child should grow to be starstruck,
Dumbstruck by privilege and power
They should cower before the rich
They should feel too self-conscious
Their social awareness too unconscious
To give a speach or teach a stranger
About the dangers to the environment
About the conditions of child-workers
About the lies of their government
Or the wars that are fought all over the world
Or the people held in jail that never did no wrong
Mangled by the gears of the establishment
But he can't make money writting about this,
He has to write something that he believes is shit
Not to be forced into eating any.
And so he sits and grits his teeth,
Contemplating his beliefs,
And cursing all the corporate thiefs
Who stole his heart and soul.
posted by AspiringYouth @ 5:28 PM
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