PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I see the best of my generation corrupted

by greed and consumption and the need for power

wandering from day to day with no other purpose

than to be a locust

uopn our world.

Politicians and doctors, secretaries and presidents,

all plagued with this disease. Hollow-eyed,

and salivating they descend into sadly-sagging,

bottom-dragging couches to turn on CNN

their internal clocks ticking, wanting, craving,

itching for what? They can't even tell. Who spends

the nights tossing, waiting, planning, conspiring for

on more dollar, one more victory. Against who

for in the end the raving and ranting of media and their propaganda

will only lead to to one catastrophic moment where realisation

that they spent their lives falsely will come.

Who wears the limp suit and drags his heels to the office everyday

for one addictive cup of ground-filled sludge and wades through paper-work.

Who ties their hair with panty-hose and scrubs urinals in hopes that they'll be enough

bread for their young come tomorrow on payday, between that

and their drugs

Who tuns tears from their sockets at night into a foul scented pillow

in hopes that their black black mascara won't stain this time as a stranger grinds away.

Who picks through grease-streaked papers and boxes for one bottole, some small salvation, 10 cents closer to a warm home.

With such simple, noble intent, where do we go awry? At what point does the incessant

ticking in out heads make us cry out for more pain, more war, more death, more profit.

Profit from where, from whom, the starving children, extended-bellied line the streets with sadness in their eyes, their homes in rubble.

Profit from pain. There's no purgatory of there's no knowledge or acceptance of wrongs inflicted. In the alleys we hide, not because we must, a choise, to sleep on cardboard and string, to eat refuse and hand-outs, but if only to escape

the greed.