A Room Full of Convicts

As I sit in front of my computer watching some short animation,
it occurs to me that for days, weeks, or some longer duration,
my mind and with it, conscious thought, had been on vacation;
all of my production had been merely replication;
call that plagiarism with no citation
because the school system taught me the process of fact regurgitation.
I have mastered the art of frivolous immitation
and can no longer produce any form of pure creation.

I see something I like and remake it.
When asked for original work, I fake it.
Cover my bones, using repition as a blanket
but with no skill, I am never sated.
Offered the Kool-aid, but I never drank it;
a cup filled with poison -- I'd never make it.
Instead, stand alone, feeling hated
and it may be because I'm a little bit jaded,
but I feel as though my very being is being rated,
like my daily life is orchestrated

by some asshole with a lot of time
attempting to force me to stay behind,
but I land on my feet, like a feline,
and to my santuary, make a beeline --
my home, my cave, my church, my shrine,
locked away somewhere deep inside my mind.
But even there, I can feel the daggers being stared into my spine
by those in their pressed suits and ties,
their lives so plainly organized.
I stand in hand-me-downs, mortified,
brain cannot compute, shorted and fried,
because to the elite, application denied.

Because I refuse to be a copy of a copy of a copy...
If it's been done before, than it is not me.
Rearing for action, call that hot feet,
and though I may be down, I am not beat
because being on the outside looking in is in my DNA -- mom's treat.
Is being included what makes life complete?
Stacking on top of each other in a social hierarchy?
With necklaces made of dog teeth,
wearing the leaves of palm trees,
surrounded by gangs of mob teens
who wink to each other, saying, "Call me!"
but they're barking up the wrong tree.

Looking for some friend, some mate,
who, with kind words, can validate,
but the only way they know how is to fornicate.
Their sole worry is, "When's the next date?"
But an Iphone GPS cannot locate
your true soul.
Instead, you are doomed to the same fate
as your parents whose marriage is second rate
because  they are so ingrained in their traditional ways,
convince that, "That's just how life is, and that's okay."

But when you do meet your Maker and cross the river Styx,
will you really be so concerned over getting your next fix?
You will be taught the truth of Freedom by a room full of convincts;
shown the purest authenticity by a boat full of backwater hicks,
beating down your ego in no less than twenty licks
until you are nothing, naught, nix.
Up your sleeve there will be no tricks,
you will be left alone with your habits and ticks,
and the walls that you built are nothing but bricks.
The comfort zone makes me sick.
But if you want to continue playing thick,
then go ahead and throw up your brand new kicks
and click "continue" on Netflix.
 

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

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