Power is a Predator (a socialist poem about living in the colonialist, racist patriarchy)

Power is a Predator

Escape is never possible,

For a mind that never shuts off.

Constant and endless flow,

Ideas upon ideas,

Questions arising ever second.

Existence is not a question,

It never was.

Existence simply is,

And survival is the question.

How do you survive,

When the powers are your predator?

So many never ask,

But many more have to.

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All Be So Pleased In Rebel Faith

All so pleased be me

Of muse and pleased

be faith that bore

no fruit.

And yet you cannot trust

my words,

you cannot do so for under

the tenses this rebellion is

what shall be true to fight for

honest right

and honest rank.

Truth in honest and

faith fought for the good work.

Faith that did indeed bare

fruit and bare it beautifully.

Beautiful,

and radiant

in faith.

What good is a broken man?

What an era to be alive.

Yet how can one call living with no dignity living?

Crawling on knees to get to a safe place to release your bowels,

Begging from mercy from an overweight class traitor with shit aim

Only to get 6 bullets in the back.

For a cell phone.

Can it be called it living to beg for help?

Only to be denied it?

Only to be killed for it?

Only to be mocked for it?

Can it be called living?

So many men,

And even more hurt women,

All because therapy is either too expensive,

So we put the burden on the femmes.

Therapy,

Too expensive,

Or not manly enough.

Wouldn’t want weakness, or tenderness to show,

No,

That’s how you end up with six bullets in the back apparently,

And lose your ability to walk,

Think,

Or breath.

That and skin of deeper tint which will act as hate’s magnet,

For what good is a broken man?

What good is fear?

What good is pain?

What good is a broken man?

And who can love something that is broken.