Swipe, click, tap,
View, oooo, ah,
Your way into selling your soul,
To whom ever is bidding,
But without us knowing,
Because the knowing is only for those,
To whom we are enslaved,
The Shylocks of the day,
Isn’t it so?
They own our souls,
All things we hold valuable,
Have worked for,
Come month end,
Summa cum laude
Or have we?
All just to gain the ability to shower them with our labor,
It’s all good as long as we hold our tongues.
Except rape is never good,
Even when its a cranial intrusion,
Set forth from birth,
An addendum to our humanity,
That we should be,
On the condition that we stay in line,
And drone on,
Step by step soldiering onward in the war for our own poverty,
Being faithful to god and country,
Your reward is in a heaven you may never reach,
The price of admitting being the denial of all things that make us human.
We sign on to this,
Ever checked box and dotted line,
We sign up for this, with acceptance and silence.
But for those who vomit words,
Who speak truth, whole and ugly,
Heaving interpretations they don’t want to see heard,
That the masses wake up,
And raise up,
Frightened out of fear and slumber,
By the sudden chill and convulsions,
Of new perceptions being ejected violently from a poets lips,
As he spills retch into the space between,
Cowardice and reason, giving birth to conviction,
That no more should be taken and violated,
By the mentality of ‘yes massa.’
They are made aware.
You see them?
Because a poet ruminated thought,
And upchucked wisdom into their midst,
And they were moved…
By word vomit.