Freehand Society

I am but a dot in a mosaic of bottled blood and cultural variation, there is no room for compliance, for heeding to society’s creed only leads to monotonous existence.

And it gets boring.

The beautiful rock we call Earth is readily inhabited by mindless drones of society, roofied by romantics: religion for someone to blame, education to be systematically wired to ask no questions, and trends to allow social confinement.

Overdraft budgets to chain wild dreams and over-sized tweezers to pluck feathers from the wings of children who are too naive to know any better.

But of course, it's all a distraction.

Psychedelic reins in a noose around our necks, blindfolded so that all we are allowed to see is the end; choices nonexistent.

Tempers flare at the first sight of curiosity, the first sight of nonconformity. So they force false truths down our throats, morph perception into what makes us the villains: self-harming cuts and suicide notes,

"I'm sorry I couldn't fit in"

We're puzzle pieces with raw edges; sticks of TNT lit from both ends, stripped of innocence too soon to repent.

A game piece on this board game playing Life and led to believe in a chance of victory; B.S incentives and sound bites, snippets of what The Controller wants us to see.

But who am I? Just another voice on mute

Except I’m at risk just writing this. I’ve steered away from what they, whoever they are, wanted and I’m thinking freely. 

This’ll probably be the last time you hear from me

This poem is about: 
Our world


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