Mercy, it’s in our prayers
and it’s our biggest cancer,
societies poison, humanities pill,
it’s mercy, the sweet nectar of power
at mercies behest some plunder and steal.
Mercy, it both separates
and connects us to the animal kingdom.
The power of mercy
bestowed upon lords,
the bedrock of hierarchy
and so much more.
Mercy, the noose around the neck
of the 21st century serf,
the promise of subjugation
the promise of death by a thousand cuts,
mercy, so misunderstood in a merciless world.
Look where we’re standing,
look how strong we are now,
The long road weren’t easy,
but at least that roads
the right way.
you’re the only one.
Still the one
that I call,
whenever I have
Still my forever
in a world of limited time.
The only woman I’ve loved,
that I want,
you’re the one.
No silver spoon,
I only know drug antidotes,
only thing to ease my mind
when the demons call.
Five years my junior,
but the reason I became a man.
On these words I stand…
your life’s my only plan.
Jungle made of concrete,
seen no easy years,
life’s so unfair…
can still feel your soul in the air.
Radicalised by pain,
sufficiently conditioned to reject
the meritocratic myths and
barely interested in conditional freedoms,
liberal bourgeoisie notions of self,
the sort of ideas that pave the good intentions to hell.
The sort of hell fashioned by the idea that our practices,
our ways of organising are anything more than ideas…
anything more than the brain children
of those who existed in a society prior
– the sort of society that they themselves once wished to redefine.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴,
𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘷𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦;
𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯
𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘯.
𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘴,
𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘭 – 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥
𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘴,
𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵.
𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴.
𝘗𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴,
𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩.
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘯,
𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.
Were all accords made for self
my thoughts may be more candid,
were I still budding and ignorant then
I’d have thought I could plan things.
I’d have girded excuses
then you’d render them useless,
like I planned it,
then I’d grin
and you’d sigh
and watch the bullshit vanish.
Maybe it’s easy to write
since I’m not forced to say things.
I’m not forced to be patient.
I’m not forced into waiting.
I’m not broadcasting my thoughts
and waiting for you to ‘okay’ things.
Maybe it’s easy to lay awake at night,
make poems out of statements,
maybe it’s simple to scream into the ether
and avert conversation.
(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ I think I’ll sit alone this summer.
Just reflect a while,
afford myself the time to blossom and
retrieve the hope that I’ve now forgotten.
Maybe I need a restart,
maybe I’m afraid to face the facts
and accept that things have been hard,
I’m definitely not the assured image on display
and maybe I’m just another flawed being and that’s okay. ♥
𝒜𝓈𝓎𝒶 𝒱𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒, 𝐵𝓊𝓈𝓎 𝐼𝓃 𝒲❁𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇