Minds of the Masses

Enraged, I, glancing to you-ward—

in effect noticing your depravity,

Tasting your terrible toxin within—

I feel at enemy with my servant,

My throng of entertainment.

The buzz you issue does not retain

Me from permitting my kin,

My dear children from absorbing

Your distasteful persuasion.


When, in time, I,

Understanding the impact of your sway

On my people’s souls, cannot help but watch:

Monster’s they have grown to be,

And malevolent beasts they do embody.

Taking this responsibility

Upon myself I—as if

Heaven’s might has imposed itself

On me—lift up a strike to your ugly, flat face.


With this mallet I shall clove

Your ugly, glass face,

That boxed-up entity of evil

That threatens humanity with its hideous futility.

Futility and unreality I say, belong to you,

Oh, harbinger of unrest, or discontent,

Or of violence, or adulteration.

Remove yourself, I pronounce,

From this dwelling and ne’er come back.


Nay, you shall not come back

Upon my house-step and sit,

To mock us with your deceitful wit.

For poison you spit at our people,

And send them asunder into the darkness

Of a cell, behind bars where they assemble,

Realizing not what brought them thus.

You do not work but for the pleasure

Of your rotten will: hollow and void.


Ruined is society because of you,

Where the least of us stand and mock those who

Take sincerely the things of time

And do not spend countless hours

Sitting, slobbering at your foot.

Box of death, yours is decay!

You command rot and worthlessness,

Carrying nations to their graves, where they sit,

Regretting, yearning that they

Could have perhaps used their life

A better way.


Sean Martin

This poem is for the "It's All Up to You" Scholarship.

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