Perturbation
Each dream, alive is kept
to face each day, left unspent
among the faces, false façade
amongst the backlash, of a
vein parade, a grand charade,
a off-key serenade.
A dream, perturbation
a moment, blemished
as each hope is vanquished
heads on the block, final
syllables, the black ink spills
from the pin-pricked heart
and fills the white-space with
cold conceits to the empty
words of the representative
democracy and the fascist
one percent that buy its every
move, give us hope back
soon, give us hope back, soon.
to face each day, left unspent
among the faces, false façade
amongst the backlash, of a
vein parade, a grand charade,
a off-key serenade.
A dream, perturbation
a moment, blemished
as each hope is vanquished
heads on the block, final
syllables, the black ink spills
from the pin-pricked heart
and fills the white-space with
cold conceits to the empty
words of the representative
democracy and the fascist
one percent that buy its every
move, give us hope back
soon, give us hope back, soon.
posted by Zoner at 12:39 PM
1 Comments:
Dude,
Your poetry is vague and indistinct, but that much truer to emotion. By blending out external reality you arrive at an interior reality, an inner realm. Your inner world is like a collidor of violent particles racing to and fro carrying bits and pieces of a life, a life that you hate. Why don't you get out to gather experiences? That way you could offer something concrete for readers to latch on to, while flushing out your inner muck onto the pavement.
It seems you're waiting to break out onto a career of writing, but haven't had the courage. It seems that you've taken on the challenge of this uncertain career. After taking your degree in business, why else would you turn to something lacking tangible returns on the job market. What's left, but to meet the challenge head on? Your in the middle stretch of your life, you'd regret it!
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