Your thirst for private property.
Modern manifest destiny.
It all leads back to bigotry.
Screwing people to get ahead.
Other can't even be fed.
Fuck you and your goddamn mall.
Consumerists assholes taking.
Corporate pricks constantly faking.
A feigned relationship,
To deceive an ignorant public.
Away time will continue to tick.
Until you steal it all.
This world was not made to be taken and divided up for the personal gain of a select few.
Fuck your racism, fuck your fascism, your sexism, ageism, your specieism, fuck itall. And fuck you.
( This Is My EvensongCollapse )
My favorite fairy tale has always been The Snowqueen. The whole idea of it filled my mind with wonder. The story has so many elements to it, so many revolving ideas. A mirror, a rose, ice, love, talking flowers and flying reindeer, gypsys, and devils, and the four seasons. It is a story for everyone. I wrote this really short story thing based on my version of the Snowqueen, which is told through The Snowqueen's point of view. Someone suggested that I should post it here. So here it is.
We've all delt with these things since the time of our births.
So-called elected officials doing these things in our names,
We can't allow them to continue their selfish games.
People working their nine to fives,
Can't they see they're barely alive?
We must break out of this cycle we're in,
And start really living our lives again.
Slaves to their technology, their wage,
We're all living in the progress age.
An age where people can't even communicate,
Without being watched and analyzed by the State.
This progression is no benefit to you or me,
Only helpful to the powerful and wealthy.
As far as I'm concerned, their progress don't mean shit,
The fight won't be easy, but til death we will not quit.
The jitled, depressed composer sighs
He begins his symphony with a meldoic tone,
A lullabye made up of all her lies
His ears still heard her whispering
"I love you, we'll never be rearranged"
he laughed to himself as they were disappearing,
as those words, and the song, changed
A score of turmoil filled the room
With notes of rage ringing in the hall
He remember the moments near their doom
Those fights, like the song, predicted a fall
Our hero played this song sunday, looking to mend
He finally found his final note, bringing about an end
Preteen legs where I sat,
Sipping my malt as Jack, the Pumpkin King
Waved my mighty sword at me from the pages
Of an old comic book.
"Times, they are a changin'," Dylan, my epic hero
In acid-washed denim warned me.
The electic-charged words seeped into the air
Landing on my lips Spicysweet like cinnamon
I rolled up my comicbook, leaving it
Abandoned on the table, as I pick up
The car keys and
Drive away from my ignorance.
...that tune was played out anyway.