Holding the Vomit

As you click, as you search,

as you stroll through the feed, indulge yourself

in the life of someone—someone who stands out from the crowd,

crowned for achievement.

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And you feel the anger,

the acrid acidity build in your lower intensities,

bubbling up from your stomach—

as the lining it burns and you can't hold it back.

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You're enraged, triggered,

bent over clutching your stomach,

holding the vomit,

the vomit you think will surface,

coat the surface in disgust at all you see, read, hear.

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The circus of freaks, you like to call them—

the whingers, the moaners, the oppressed.

At least they don't get accused or told how trashy they are,

is your thinking, your feeling.

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There is a difference, a difference you should know

betwixt intelligence and wisdom.

There is a difference, a difference you should know

betwixt having opinions and sharing them.

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Applauds and plaudits you feel you're owed—

applauds and plaudits you milk til they're dry.

Why is what others—you know the others, the them—

you love speaking about? Why, why?

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Why is what others,

like those in the cities and towns...

No.

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Not feeding the machine,

feeding the cycle,

the system of trolling the downtrodden and low.

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Like, the constant trashing, deriding,

in the comments,

in the lower half of the internet,

against people you only know,

because they are well known.

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Irony in action—

irony sharpening its focus

on your deplorable viewpoints.

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freedom of speech might feel like a safety,

but why bitch and moan

and stir the pot,

beyond the artist's artistry,

to take aim at their personal decisions,

at their body type, size or even lifestyle?

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Remember—

you are triggered by someone who is famous,

because they weren't famous,

you'd not even know them.

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Haters gon' hate—but why?

The conversation is over.

The argument null and void.

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When calling into question the talent or success

of someone who you know

because they are successful—

when you could be channelling

all that rage, the riotous indignation

toward modern living,

at targets that deserve it.

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Not just the latest pop, rock, rap, metal,

or K, J, C-pop star.

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There was once a man

who sought to take down the King of them all,

the King appointed by those who loved and adored him.

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They sought to bring him down

with verbal vitriol, fausses nouvelles,

ill-conceived debates,

and just unkindness.

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Centred though he was in the limelight,

the King did little to deserve such vindictive hatred.

And his followers too, did not with deliberation

invoke the vile venom the deriders threw their way.

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Still, The King prospered—

though hurt at unknowns

spitting poison in his direction—

because those who lifted him,

still loved and adored him.

Because why wouldn't they?

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Dislike is fine.

Full-on hatred is unwarranted,

unjustified,

and just moronic.

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There is also a thread—

though subtle miniscule

beneath your inflated belief in superiority—

a thread of jealousy.

A thread of envy.

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For the King did not want for much,

but he did work hard for it.

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Work being—relative.

For what is work?

What is real work?

Is real work a concept we should even give weight to?

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This King,—

not Thee King.

but a fabled King of entertainment,

of literary arts, of postmodern musings,

etched on the side of stone like tablets

or table-like computers—

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He didn't save lives to get where he is.

He didn't build houses.

But his work is worthwhile.

His work is work, all the same.

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The King will still die.

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And in his final showdown

with the last embers of life

as his eyes close on this world.

he will be alone.

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Like you

Like I.

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Those not of the higher station

of kings and queens.

We are all the same.

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Though art is a path—

a pathway for those

bound to create,

bound by that insatiable desire

for recognition, ego-stroking, entertainment,

prominence, wealth or greatness.

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Arguing against that—

debating against that—

suggesting someone who is famous for something

is famous for nothing

is like standing on someone's neck

and claiming it's not excessive force.

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Comments on weight.

Comments on mentality

Comments on lifestyle—

are just as excessive.

As a knee to the neck.