Voted

Which one of us is happy

with the ways of this world?

Infinite options,

but we chose to fill graves early,

we chose maximum profits,

we chose, we voted, we designed

our own doom.

If a poem is a building,

this life we've chosen

is a nuclear bomb,

the crosshairs aimed

at our supposedly precious hometowns,

which now sit ravaged,

bleeding on Atlases, turned red on Google Maps.

We squeeze out our memories,

force feed ourselves anxiety-driven 'rest',

hustle for our own unwanted image,

fill our shelves with blank spaces

continuing, grudgingly, through

the sludge we call living -

more like surviving -

eating tasteless food

in freezing rooms

wishing for the power to feel freer

wishing that power could colourise

our greyed-out lives.

Which one of us is happy

with the ways of this world?

One in which we grind down our joy

to spend time earning peanuts

lost before we leave the door.

We forge skyless grey skies in our days in factories,

wishing, wishing, wishing

for escape.

We trudge, like zombies, towards our own emptiness,

knowing it the entire time,

watching the colours fade from life,

watching the war take over once more,

doing nothing,

not even hoping anymore,

bleeding out slowly

but refusing stitches,

the next generation

to be the real victims.

Treat yourself to a heart attack

at the expense of your shelter,

treat yourself to new trademarks

at the expense of your future.

Design your own coffin

and die while sawing its wooden sides,

choking on the sawdust, 

alone and dead, but prepared.

All that you hated

is what you decided,

the bitterness spreads,

the cynicism wrecked,

backstroking through your bloodline

to point the finger at your ancestors.