I, P0p$t@r

Mon, 03/28/2016 - 23:17 -- MartinD

I’m sick of it,

The blasted hordes like dried-out gourds

Screaming, cawing for more water.

Feed the flesh, delight the eyes

Give us our shining fantasy. With flippancy

Strip down past all the layers of

Her skill her voice her person,

And then take her, break her, make her

Into someone she is not.

Into something that is not.

 

Pull the paints out.

Imperfections had their day

Yesterday.

Today we’re going all the way.

Make or break her,

Take and shape her:

Tonight she’ll be the idol of the world.

 

Set the lights, hold your poise.

There’s a goddess on the stage tonight.

Not a person. Not a voice.

It’s the sex doll’s dance tonight.

 

But we’ll call it art.

 

I’m sick of it,

The cursed curve,

Numbers up, so clothes come down; and to think they started out

So innocent.

But the eye of the tiger is broken,

The clearness of crystal is crushed -

So “Let’s turn the shards into a dress.”

 

Crystalize, sterilize,

Put her on a different plane.

Separate, distillate,

Don’t let them see her pain.

“If you have to show you’re broken,

It’s gotta be so you can gain.”

Strip away. Everything.

Don’t show them who she really is.

We need an image for the covers

Not a person. Not a windowpane

Into her soul.

 

So break free, defying,

Undying.

You’re like a god.

No more trying. True flying

Means no more rules for me.

Don’t let them try to

Defy you:

 

You are now allowed to breathe free.

 

But only if you push the line. Flaunt your paints and shine your sparkles, leave behind your decency. You stand before a watching globe - it is your job to entertain. So really, you are not your own.

 

The masses are the masters, though they pay.

 

So no, there’s no way out for you. There’s only forward

Which is downward. And no chance

To just be you. Because

Your freedom isn’t free.

 

They just can’t take a faulty human. It would be a let-down,

A break-down.

So let us shove you in a box.

Tell you how you have to be.

If you’re gonna keep your money

And your parody of free.

Then take the stage

Play the part.

There’s no more music

No more art.

Just a mad house, a cat house

Diced up platters serving meat.

Kiss your chains, take your gains,

For all your pains

We still ain’t free.

 

But still. We’ll call it art.

 

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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