Rebellious poet

The world is a damn travesty! 
 

(Pencil pusher in a suit seeks a talented

personality. Has many references to

personal opinions. Will suck d*ck for

fame.)

My question is this. Are there any voices

left at all? Any fingers with which to

actually inspire?

Are all the poet's really dead and extinct? 

And only hopeless left, extinguishing the fire? 

(Young teen seeks ways to vent rage. 

Picks up a pen, writes about false suicide attempt. Cuts self for release. Will remove shirt for attention) 

What happened to the singers of the past? 

Did they all get lost in the crowd of rejects? 

Is a spot on a page really considered art? 

Makes me confused and very perplexed. 

(Old man seeks renewal of old hobbies. Picks up a pen and writes. Shows people, 

and is accused of radicalism. Will read

basic works just for love) 

Am I wrong in my view of this world? 

Has my heart truly died to all life? 

Is it wrong to see flaws in existence? 

Is it right to think difference has died? 

(Young boy seeks love. Will allow self to be groomed and abused for attention).

Injustice. Ridiculousness. Absurdity. 

It is wrong to be radical? To be free? 

Will I let you chain my uncontrolled soul? 

Nah. Never. I like being me. 

I have seen my share of the world and its kicks, 

and I tell you my friend... it is not a pretty sight. 

Racism is put on the back burner now. 

No more black against white. 

For the world has resorted to grey and death. 

They are not people. They are just... normal. 

While the romantics. The real rebels, 

and the sympathetic of life are abnormal. 

I want to read a really great scope of life. 

A philosophy of hope on art and song. 

And although there are many who are useless, 

I pray they raise their voice and sing along.

So join me in this final, last embrace. 

The truth of life that many have ignored. 

This young guy just seeks a world of artists. 

A place where sight and sounds can be adored.