Without much effort I can see hunger, poverty, deprivation, midst warehouses filled with food and necessities of life. At a glance I can see police brutality, state repression and I can smell the decaying flesh of wars.
What words can we use to end the inequality, injustice and pointless misery of wars.
What words can we use to end the inequality, injustice and pointless misery of wars.
Words.
Perhaps words are just forgotten trinkets
locked in some old box
lying in a dark attic
waiting for the poets to find the key.
locked in some old box
lying in a dark attic
waiting for the poets to find the key.
Behind every glossy facade this society of illusions throws up, they walk, unseen, the forgotten, the disenfranchised, the hungry, the homeless and the lonely, lost and unwanted somewhere under a sea of opulence.
Between Dignity and Poverty
In this metropolis of wealth with its fountains of opulence
We are the excluded army that walks that tightrope
Between dignity and poverty.
The excluded, the marginalised, the forgotten,
Regulated by mercenaries, some with guns, others with pens.
They know not, we are their brothers and sisters.
Nor do they know,
Our strength is forged in the humiliation of the bread line
Our daily question, will there be food,
Or will the pangs of hunger stay.
We exist in a system of numbers and balance sheets,
Our lives, dehumanised statistics,
Catalogued and filed by a blind accountant.
When asked to count our dead, do we count the living dead?
Will this tightrope be the inheritance to our children
Or shall our tortured journey lead us from anxiety to revolt
Will the anguish of our children feed our righteous anger
Causing us to tear asunder this fabricated web of injustice
We are the excluded army that walks that tightrope
Between dignity and poverty.
The excluded, the marginalised, the forgotten,
Regulated by mercenaries, some with guns, others with pens.
They know not, we are their brothers and sisters.
Nor do they know,
Our strength is forged in the humiliation of the bread line
Our daily question, will there be food,
Or will the pangs of hunger stay.
We exist in a system of numbers and balance sheets,
Our lives, dehumanised statistics,
Catalogued and filed by a blind accountant.
When asked to count our dead, do we count the living dead?
Will this tightrope be the inheritance to our children
Or shall our tortured journey lead us from anxiety to revolt
Will the anguish of our children feed our righteous anger
Causing us to tear asunder this fabricated web of injustice
A depressing view of our world, but one that is there for all to see, should they care to look. Our question should be, how do we right these wrongs, how do we wipe the injustice and inequality from the face of the earth. how do we create that world of respect for all human life, and end power pomp and privilege that is based on wealth.
Why Not?
I see hungry children crying beside warehouses of food
I see the elderly cold hungry alone in an ocean of plenty
I feel anger when caskets draped in that coloured rag
carried home with military pomp weeping families
another causality of greed privilege power
Day and daily I see greed praised as success
rich as celebrities, poor as failures
I swim in a sea of fabricated illusions where privilege is progress
where truth dies a lonely death somewhere in a corner of our heart
Yet within my heart I have millions of seeds of love
I know I must plant and let grow
So why shouldn’t I be an anarchists?
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