Better World,
or, Another One of Those
Poems Written Before Long-Overdue Sleep,
by rewired,
05/17/03,
8:17 AM.
You push me out of mind, you push me into line
but I just can't align to a design I don't belong to.
When I was younger I saw the abuse of a man
against a child, against a friend
who was like a brother to me.
As I grew up, I fought my mother tooth and nail
against her subtle manipulations, and
when I was eighteen she threw me on drugs to
trim the puzzle piece that didn't belong, to
throw me in a world run on rules that
make no sense to me, who has limitations
so cramping and suffocating.
So you point your finger and blame me
for thinking for myself, forming new strategies.
I show you the finger I have especially
reserved for authority
who leads by commands and demands blind faith
who doesn't practice what they preach or lead by example,
who makes mountains out of ant hills.
Your too stuck on the sacred you can't let
this stupid, irrelevant shit slide and
leave your book behind.
You yell at me for the world I put on my shoulders, well,
get your head out of your ass and open your eyes,
because I'm so sick of this:
these petty, mundane practices.
How can you live like this?
The world has become my friend's father.
The world has become my mother, (or at least
I associate the world with the emotional memories
of these two beings, fed within the womb of
emotional infancy by the umbilical cord that
nurtures me with this misery).
The world has become that dictating,
pointing finger.
I have become my
middle finger.
Fuck every god you could imagine.
To hell with every system we run in.
I'm sick of aristocracy, there's got to be more
than the choice to live as a slave or swallow pride,
take the crown, and live and bear your own hypocrisy.
I want more for you out of this world;
I demand more of me.
I don't want to live under dictation.
I don't want to live within the confines of your rigid limitations.
You can't sew shut my eyes, put staples over my mouth
and plug my ears.
You don't know how much I want to change,
and I'm working on How
and the vision To Where or Who or What is fuzzy,
but it's not going to be somewhere, someone, something
more suited to your demands, it's going to be
something more true, something that will catch on
like some fucking beautiful memetic, morphic resonant flu,
because I deserve something
better than this putrid world we build and perpetuate,
and shut up, because so do you.
or, Another One of Those
Poems Written Before Long-Overdue Sleep,
by rewired,
05/17/03,
8:17 AM.
You push me out of mind, you push me into line
but I just can't align to a design I don't belong to.
When I was younger I saw the abuse of a man
against a child, against a friend
who was like a brother to me.
As I grew up, I fought my mother tooth and nail
against her subtle manipulations, and
when I was eighteen she threw me on drugs to
trim the puzzle piece that didn't belong, to
throw me in a world run on rules that
make no sense to me, who has limitations
so cramping and suffocating.
So you point your finger and blame me
for thinking for myself, forming new strategies.
I show you the finger I have especially
reserved for authority
who leads by commands and demands blind faith
who doesn't practice what they preach or lead by example,
who makes mountains out of ant hills.
Your too stuck on the sacred you can't let
this stupid, irrelevant shit slide and
leave your book behind.
You yell at me for the world I put on my shoulders, well,
get your head out of your ass and open your eyes,
because I'm so sick of this:
these petty, mundane practices.
How can you live like this?
The world has become my friend's father.
The world has become my mother, (or at least
I associate the world with the emotional memories
of these two beings, fed within the womb of
emotional infancy by the umbilical cord that
nurtures me with this misery).
The world has become that dictating,
pointing finger.
I have become my
middle finger.
Fuck every god you could imagine.
To hell with every system we run in.
I'm sick of aristocracy, there's got to be more
than the choice to live as a slave or swallow pride,
take the crown, and live and bear your own hypocrisy.
I want more for you out of this world;
I demand more of me.
I don't want to live under dictation.
I don't want to live within the confines of your rigid limitations.
You can't sew shut my eyes, put staples over my mouth
and plug my ears.
You don't know how much I want to change,
and I'm working on How
and the vision To Where or Who or What is fuzzy,
but it's not going to be somewhere, someone, something
more suited to your demands, it's going to be
something more true, something that will catch on
like some fucking beautiful memetic, morphic resonant flu,
because I deserve something
better than this putrid world we build and perpetuate,
and shut up, because so do you.
