freedom.
Our liberty continuously advertised through our screens.
National news, derived from plastic-faced politicians
Who paid their way into their own corruption.
We are the ones being fucked over.
And we know it.
We are depressingly, and consciously,
Aware of work, work, work.
With free play in a cage as a reward.
Fake, withheld promises to the ones who
Are obedient enough to listen without complaint.
We work like twenty-four-hour machines; rust eats away at us
Like maggots, from our insides.
Discarded fake notes and currency lay upon our streets,
Wasting away in our drains
It is our ultimate cure
To an endless illness
But our freedom only comes at a small price.
The price smells like oak, six feet under unfertilized soil.
Murmurs of condolences arriving once it is too late.
Rotten flowers degrade next to the grey marble stone that one had to sell their soul for.
It is what we are
most afraid of
That
Sets us free.
