When as man chooses to stop learning
Is the day that he truly dies.
The herd of the mundane
Ridicules the fires of passion as insane.
And so the man suffocates it.
The embers smolder, crackle, and hiss.
He has destroyed comfort and direction.
He is now cold and blind.
“You did the right thing.”
The herd offers its petty assurance,
“At least now you’ll have health insurance.”
But it is still so dark,
The man lays to rest
He’s toiled and troubled today
for someone who doesn’t know his name.
With eyes closed, he smiles.
That roaring flame that used to be.
A glorified bingo palace,
same indignant smell.
Saps sitting silently,
Saps sitting silently,
planted in place.
Pacing in place- preparing for self-promised pipe dreams.
Tax dodgers, collections dodgers, draft dodgers, wife dodgers, and coffin dodgers alike
flock as moths to the warm glow of the pharaoh,
as disciples they listen
to the soothing reassurances from bets high and low,
that their grass may grow greener.
Reality goes on strike.
Down the dated carpet I walk,
I see the young and old fixed on cards and screens,
sarificing precious time and superficial dollars
to legal criminals, to cheats in blue collars.
The wolves who have ditched wool for Armani cackle,
friends of humanity always feed the fiends.
This is not meant to provide fame nor fortune, this vice.
How can these people be so gullible, so docile, as well trained pets?
So I shake my head, and I buy a beer.
I hum and I haw, I light a cigarette.
I take a drink,
I take a puff,
I curl my lips in contempt at the saps,
“What a waste of life.”
By Ben Charles
I am owed happiness.
I am owed love.
I am owed sex.
I am owed L I F E.
The rolling rock gathers moss,
mankind resentfully collects and counts her cost,
while mothers weep and mourn her loss.
Divine demiurge or celestial chance,
depending on who you ask,
gathered us all here to today.
Either impossible odds or omniscient god
They gave us everything and nothing.
Gave us the night, gave us the day.
Odds of fractions to the trillions
Gave us bare feet on the grass,
gave us love shortlived, lifelong and past.
Is this owed to the simians?
Every existence per hapless sap,
Spits in the face of reason,
We’re God’s Laws’ treason
searching El Dorado without a map.
So here we are.
What’s left to do?
We demand more, we demand respect.
We need a better nose, we’re owed a newer car.
I am owed an expensive vacation if not 2 or 3 on a yearly basis
I am owed paper featuring dead men’s faces.
I am owed all this, plus a wife and a bigger house than you.
I am owed.
I am owned.