They sighed, "The Good die young"

I say, "The good are sacrificial scapegoats"

Yes, I am one of them

Oh, No I "was" one of them.

I was nosy and noisy "They' told me

I should have been quite

when I had my chance.

'They' wailed, " thegood die young"
But then 'they' told me I should have

kept the blindfolds on, let the freakshow entertain multitude

of eyes glued to their blue screens

For, the world likes to wallow in their


it is not my calling to ignite their souls ,

To jolt them out of their trance

They wrapped a loop around my neck

Tightened the noose and dangled me from the beam like a

ragged doll,

They sucked my blood dry and gnawed on my bones like

bald vultures.

finally, a sad familiar circus.

"They' told the world that I was living a lie and my name was

double standards, "They' went on tarnishing my sanity

Painting my mind dark black red

They narrated the usual mind rotting story,

branded my soul clinically depressed,

that I was too caught up in my own fame

The plot was perfect
Too perfect like all other "plots."

The long prescriptions strewn

with antidepressants, a history of cyberbullying,

hate stories wafted from the

morning herald,

A gut wrenching climax,
Like gasoline to this raving inferno

My phantom of a gospel
A philosophy tainted

to save this "Gotham" of a society

was yet again another staged

melodrama of lies

'They' scattered my charred bones To the wind

Chanting Nirvana

and fucking RIP

And a ramble on mental wellness

and some third rate sympathies.

My soul shattering truth spiraled

in the bottomless pit of the "so called media"

As a charade of an attention seeking whore

Society's verdict,

"My truth was unpleasant,

That it burned the conscience

Of the world, their world,

The world loves to entertain and to be entertained

in this sacrificial ritual of scapegoats

to appease the matrix demigods"

Another hunt, another scapegoat on the noose.

The game is on.

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world


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