social commentary
There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
Time
Time Why does time just go drifting by Does it only live In my mind’s eye The tick of a clock synchronized it can be But does it tell time If it runs free What is the time What is the date I’ve got a schedule to keep straight I have an appointment What does the doctor say Can you get to a store Before it ends the day You get to spend your time Under the warm sun Once it is over Then your time is done
By Mark Stigers 4 months ago in Poets
Stop.
Staples Nipples Identical Deadameter Entropy Stop Broken Unspoken Token Choking Heretic Usurper Retributory Stop I can't just stop like I know what I'm even doing here. Like know which way north is or what ends my head and arse occupate in the space of expanding atmosphere I am taking up more of with every breath and dodgy moment of my right knee. Stop Alcoholic and chemical strains rust and purify in equal and unequal measures the state I'm in. Body and mind are more or less functioning in steady disrepute and decline Sublimation Knowledge is a foredrawn conclusion Vermilion paints my glassy eyed vision Atrophies are Apostrophes set to antagonise Ever heard the tale of the old man who sought wisdom and pearls from tyrants and dilettantes? Faustus fosters an ever collapsing ideal that we all do what we want for process and damn the consequences Damn the consequences Broken people broken promises Damn the ravens the scavengers corvus the crows draped over like a debutante chucking guts with cheap cider and cheaper thrills as they pick at me Stop Remember to fill up on crud and carbs of no functional purpose. Remember to tip your local tavern barkeep and local counsoler But the lonely But the lonely Will always need And Satre was right and Nietzsche was right but God was right and George Harrison was never wrong And the sound of second hand phone calls make me bleed internally. Stop Consequences the damn Stop Depend on nothing Except the space between your breaths as a counterattack to death's crooked chisel. Second hand phone calls. When you're sat in the room and the person on the other end is talking to your partner or room occupant and the sound drags d r a g s its graphic equaliser spikes down my ear drums and into the cavernous-cavenous acres of flesh and drags a pathway to my heart. You can hear both voices and the one on the other end crackles a little and stutters intermittently. Drapes Scrapes Pares Acre Rec Damn And then I think back To when I had more hope And also less hope equal To those around me who never felt a distant pull towards the ever increasing circular vortex of ideas and plans and plans and consequences and unforseen academic obstacles and interpersonal breakdowns in communication with first hand phone calls and forgotten promises and neglected relationships and forgotten self and neglected self forgotten breakdowns and consequences Stop ... Elepsis For a stop A moment A breath ... Sometimes I want it all to end. To leave it all behind and get lost in paradoxes of my own creation. Sometimes I want it to end before it drags me down further than I can bear. Further than I've already been. To Find Rock Bottom Has A Dnoyeb A void within a void within a void within a crisis I Can't Compete Or Meet The Standards I Set For Myself I'm In C o m p l e t e But right now I need to put outside clothes on put on my outside face and go to see my mother in the hospital because love is vital. Vital
By Paul Stewart4 months ago in Poets
