Prose and musing by Sam I am.
Writer of cyberpunk, dystopian fiction, and nonfiction. Plus whatever drives me at the time.
They feed their fat faces, whilst they cut our throats.
The bastards love it. And you help spoon it in. even though they spit in your faces. But it’s okay as long as they're racist, they’ll get your vote.
You can bury your head in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. But that doesn’t make you a poet. You can hide away from what is staring you in the face, that’s your choice.
But you can’t deny your compliance with it. So maybe now, this time, now that you know what the tyrants can do before they snip away your last freedoms, maybe you will do something about it.
Memories are short 'round here my friend, but the wounds heal deep.
It’s getting cold in here. But we can’t afford the fire.
Tame stock. Learn. Do differently next time. You know their lies. We all do. And if the other side isn’t much better it’s still better than what we’ve got. And you’ve got to start cleaning house somewhere.
But we think we’re America, just with crown jewels. But we’re not. And no one wants to be seen with us on the playground. But we have our fish. Don’t we?
They are fooling no one. Most people do that by themselves.
The headlines will be breaking tomorrow morning. If not picked at by night. And already the fool is starting to tumble now that the clown is leaving town. The children have taken over the asylum. We always knew they would.
But we get our education from the TV and our opinions from avatars we barely know. And we wonder why no one’s listening. That is why they are so afraid of the masks and the hoods.
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image create by Ai artists at https://creator.nightcafe.studio/
