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Sunday, July 13, 2014

They Who Are Cliché

I use the cliché
so a clichéd person like you
will understand what I say;

but if I thought you had the mental capacity
of conscience to recognise
what you idolise is poison,

I'd tell you the shit that leaks
from your mouth will seep into the secrecy
of your private moments to imprison you,

and even they will eventually abandon you,
like children who no longer value or idolise
or understand who their parents have become,

and you know what that is festering under your skin?
it's the smell of you rotting in secret, as you sit at home
ignoring the trash you're throwing at your screen

will come back and hit you when you're alone;
every time you open your mouth and swallow
you'll choke on your own lies going down the wrong way,

and even if I thought it would save you, I mean,
I'd never stop your evil getting in your way,
for I'm not here to convince anyone like you

what is so obvious to the right of mind;
and whoever follows you is your own kind fattened
on the junk that pushes truth aside;

and I don't need to convince you why
your evil can't stare itself in the eye;
you crack what the mirror refuses to hide;

look and see how your shadows contort you face;
how you'll grow old, living as you die
and even the truth of soil won't give you space,

the earth won't accept you; it will spit you out
as you spat out your soul uselessly;
wasting your time when time is wasting you,

to attack the truth that won't die,
and which you try to bury in disguise
of criticism because you stuffed your ego

up your arse long ago, and yes -- you do look fat in it;
instead of cleaning up the mess between your thighs,
you get off by fingering yourself with your self-serving lies,

your ego is fucking you in the fantasy of your mind;
obsessively blind because you've dirtied your sight,
and whoever stands for you is without light

and so can't outshine mine: and when shouts get louder
I keep getting stronger with the adversity
as inspiration to sword through paper-thin fantasy;

and the only thing I need is the word
to defend beauty, because isn't it funny
how only when I deal with you poetry gets ugly?

for if I wanted to fully inject myself with your inability;
with the same chronic, limited mentality infecting you,
then I'd shrink down to your size to reply well enough;

but don't mistake my refusal not to reply
in the language you understand because I can't speak it,
it's because I choose not to that I won't repeat it,

and I laugh at what people try to slander;
or what they try to throw at my gender, or culture,
for I am further away from people like you

than merely a stone's throw; and I know
I don't need to master words, they simply fasten me
to what matters most in life isn't you;

and if I want to protect myself
I don't need to pick up a gun to kill someone,
all I use is the courage of my creativity to stun;

for no one can take what is given me
by something greater than you and I;
it tells me the only thing I need

is all I have; no tools are necessary
other than a human heart hungry
for a distant horizon in which to fly;

where I can paint with every colour in the sky;
every lifting hue rising above every dirty dark stone
of salted blue rubbed into your unseeing eye;

for poisoned people will always ignore
what they can't look in the eye,
or the truth they try to deny;

but while people like you lie
down and die, people like me
will always get up and try.

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