Poetry by self-publishing dystopian and cyberpunk author, writer, and marketer Sam I am.
Writer of cyberpunk, dystopian fiction, and nonfiction. Plus whatever drives me at the time.
What if it was your fault?
I mean really. What if?
You try to pretend you are above it all.
That it was all "them".
But what if you drove them to it?
What if their madness is your sanity? Or something like that.
You look back over a year of ‘what the fuck’ and you think what’s the fucking point. If no one gives a fuck why should you?
you ain't ever going back! but drip drip drip its starts and soon it seeps in deep.
Too deep.
It almost feels like drowning.
And before you know water is rising around your ankles and you ease yourself into it.
Its war. Its familiar. Its comfort. And you sink in deep. Lost in a dream of memories lost.
Past selves and forgotten lives and those not yet spoken.
But there is something gnawing away in the bowls of your mind.
Where the shadows grow and footsteps whisper.
And you know. You will never admit it, not even to yourself, but you know.
You may even question out loud but never really hear the words spoken.
You were too busy looking the other way. Fucking. Eating. Shitting.
You didn’t notice the stirring pot.
The temperature rising.
Not until everyone around you was losing their heads.
You smiled while they exploded in rage with fist flying through the air, aimed at an imaginary assailant.
Yet when they start throwing their fists at you, you decry them.
All the time ignoring the obvious.
Ignoring what was right beneath you.
The moment you realized you were at boiling point, you knew it was too late.
And what better than to blame the other. The other guy. Not you.
Now that the pigs would feast at their banquet once more as the gut dropping stench of reality steps in and you know now, more than ever, it was too late.
To settle into your fate is almost to welcome it. Almost enjoy it.
And yet when you wake up from your fate and go off looking for your destiny you wind up getting lost.
As though following broken arrows in the moonlight.
Then you realize all along you were never watching and you didn’t notice it move by.
Until it moved in.
Feet under the table.
Ready and salivating at the anticipation of picking the flesh from your broken old bones.
What will you do now the fight has left you? Does it splinter, your spine?
Does it embed itself into the walls of his throat and as he leaves office choke him? He might even like it.
