listener

i keep putting pen to paper and listening to listener scream about black crows and drying tongues and I keep trying to force some source of selflessness but I can’t
i can’t howl like a pack of wolves these tired lungs won’t let me i’m not okay, 
don’t lie to me 

i’m part of a working class, a passive majority that’s fully integrated into a system of our own repression and we wonder why your skin turned yellow we are not okay 
say it with me
well I’m desperate to foster this sorry world that so undeservedly unfurled at my callous hands but at least our home won’t be inhabited by the hero that told you his lustful gaze was love we will be okay 
don’t lie to me 

as his ageing, grey hands search for soft dimples in your pale skin know that he will find only bones and now you trace those same bones beneath that same pale skin and sometimes you still flinch but between tears of joy and tears of love, tattered lives and burnt houses, photographs of spouses doused in gasoline you’ll be set free 
you’ll be okay 
say it with me