A Strange World
This is a strange world,
stranger times,
and in this mad world,
only the mad are sane.
Ruled by lies and deceit,
everything falsified,
truth hidden craftily
with fairytales
of a happy state.
Blinded by power,
bloated bellies
filled with pennies.
Poisonous narratives,
a dying country,
and dead people.
Rebels and rebellion,
romance and romantics,
madcaps in a mad world,
meek voices of a few,
dictating Inqalaab
etched on the polluted skies.
Where is truth?
Give me truth.
Graffitis on walls,
colourful characters,
no filters.
Surveillance state,
vigilant people,
every step a quagmire.
Glorified standards,
acceptance impossible;
starve, retch,
and choke to death.
Instagram models,
perfect bodies,
anorexic souls,
goals, goals, goals.
The smell of decay,
effluvium of piss,
shit and rotten whims.
Intelligence is a crime,
abs and trimmed beard,
zero figures and dog filters.
Where is beauty?
Give me beauty.
Minorities lined up
against graffitied walls,
no questions asked,
no answers given,
a bullet to thier heads,
gags on thier mouths.
A police state?
No, that's just a facade.
The privileged sleep,
drool on thier pillows,
dreams of prosperity,
floating on a bed
of fresh, ripe mangoes.
The migrant dies
on the road,
breathing his last,
dust on his mouth,
and hatred in his heart,
no way to go.
Where is compassion?
Give me compassion.
Bloated ego's,
the elephant in the room,
an elephant in the pond,
dying as everyone looks on.
Pregnant women jailed,
no trial and no honour.
A city wakes up,
morose and angry,
shut out from the world,
screams stifled with guns,
dreams vying
to break free.
Is Punk dead?
Skeletons of distant past,
squirm and turn
in thier graves.
A free country,
yet unfree,
so different,
yet the same.
Where is my country?
Give me my country.
