I walked on a lonely path, and I met with no fork
Frost claimed he did, so I searched for one of my own.
The world is unconscious, and the cynic inside
rejoices in this revelation, he has found a stage, and found his mike
his search complete, but greeds grows.
He wants them to see their ugly side,
They hold no love, no pain,
just the greed of shortlived ecstacy rides their possessed minds,
they all hibernate somewhere in the hybrids of human complexities.
It was inevitable, so they have found a haven, a safer runway.
I wait, wait for them to grow, and this
wait is very long.
The poet, with no delightful inspiration, is
despondent for he cannot find the words that
he prides himself on,
the artist can paint no more, the singer stops to compose symphonies
those who could think, stop thinking,
they question no more and accept the governance of the dead.
So prone to influence, absence of defence- the soldiers become victims,
in a war that lost its continuum.
A world too fake.
At this you frown, sick of my pessimist adages,
You point out the trifles, that I should enjoy but the heart
of a poet looks at the bigger picture,
troubled at the little misgivings, troubled at the greater problems.
I'm to be outnumbered soon.
"Write for the common, write for their comprehension" says one.
And I spit back "I do not write for those who do not understand life,
I do not write for their fake eyes, I write for those who value the rose,
look in it deep, and find it's story."
Arise! Awake! through the power of my words,
the pain of my eyes,
I shall make you see what
our world has come to be.
Dead men asleep, dead men awake,
dead men with no hearts, served on a plate
of the world.
Do not worry, just stay alive, because you
tread on cursed waters, my dear child.
Look carefully, in the distance it is not
a man you see, that is a mushroom rock
eroded by the strength of the air around.