PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In tribute, we live like parasites 
on thrown away bread, digesting 
  
our indifference to one another. 
  
Summer or winter, neither season 
interferes with our decayed morals. 
We like extremes, for that is the 
pattern we've been taught 
to believe. 
  
Water drips from the tap, it 
resembles rusted cars in 
a forgotten outdoor theatre. 
  
Bodies splayed in no particular order. 
  
Used up, discarded. Rejected 
pieces of mud left like animal 
droppings in a bag on a porch. 
  
In our delusionary state, we indicate 
our lack of concern for anything 
that does not have commercials. 
  
We exist to purchase everything 
we've been told we need. 
  
The right soft drink, the correct 
pair of jeans. 
  
Flashing sound-bytes, our 
statement to the world. We call 
out our rage in symbols of 
self-indulgence. 
  
Polluted river flowing with the 
sludge of our commercialism. 
Drinking from it we dare 
to embrace 
the toxic waste of our 
lost idealism. 
  
Step over the man on the street, 
kick aside the woman with 
the shopping cart full 
of her illusions. 
  
They are not problems until 
they commit a crime. Statistics 
that are put on paper 
and than used to line 
the bottom of our birdcage 
point of view. 
  
We struggle with nothing, not 
wanting to get our hands dirty. 
  
Dying, we become fertilizer 
in the ground. Remembered only 
when there is money 
left to share. 
  
How proud our ancestors 
must be of the fruit of 
their labours.