The Belly Of The Beast

We wake up, like mechanized animals,

And put up the fiercest of our fights

To survive the hasty passing of the days,

To make a dream outshine the city lights.

I’ve become a cog in the machine, too.

And so, I repeat this process every day.

I drown Monday mornings in black coffee.

I pray, to excuse the things I cannot say.

The dusk turns as red as do my eyes,

Nights fall after days, like dominoes.

My blood poisoned, my mind disciplined

To believe that it’s just the way it goes.

My hands grow brittle, trying to build

Someone else’s dream for a wage,

Gazing at computer screens, in pain,

Sipping on delusions that might assuage.

I sound the horns on stagnant roads,

Watching the system stifle and choke,

Just like we do, in the blurred spaces

Where there’s not a fire, only smoke.

I walk into closed, dark and loud room,

Telling myself that I shouldn’t be here.

I toil through absurd years, get rewarded,

Pay for survival, and call it a career.

Dear Life, what have you made of me?

Dear City, what have you now become?

Why does your hunger never die, dear,

And only grows with every day to come?

A billion lives pass through your belly,

Devoured, and rejected once you’re done.

What if I, another futile part of this,

Dare refuse to be yet another one?

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