Propagandic Inkflow

Dippin' quills to clicking pens-
time to write a story
about a mother fucker
that deserves no glory.
Plaster his face, his name
'cross the land
like he's the one we need
to hold on high.
Fuck that! I'm not listening
to the rubbish from your pen
that trickles like the ink
flowing from my back.

Boredom clenches me in its jaws,
and I read the propaganda,
feeling brain cells running for their lives.
This infection brings about
a clamoring fever
causing deafening screams to
be hurled from the depths of my lungs.
My conscience in anguish
and my cortex quivering in doubt-
who am I to believe? Who? Who?

I read the responses...
overwhelming bravado.
Now I must strike back!
You will hear my call.
I will offer my words
with no inhibitions
and even say
"Go ahead and print my motherfucking lines!"
You read and chide me,
saying "Read this. Digest that."
I'll stick to my volition
and offer a compromise.
What do I get for that?
"Hell no, you rotten bitch!"

Stunned, bemused and totally abashed,
I seek to find if anyone
will pay me any mind.
Good news! There's hope!
People will listen to what I have to say.
I have support, and now I feel
a weight lifted from me.

Turn around, and what I see
is more props against me.
The machine continues to churn out
the ink in his name.
It goes trickle
trickle 
trickle  
as it's paraded for the masses.
To think I had a hope...
I'd never felt so alive!
The ribbons, the praises-
they drown my fleeting hope
in a puddle of praise
for the angle that dominates
empowers 
manipulates  
and drowns out the calls for balance.
FUCK MANIPULATION!
I refuse to take it!
I won't bow to the whim of your "mercy".
I shall show what it means
to have an independent mind
and that the virtues of hard work and tough love
are the things that help us overcome.

But you rape my pen, rob it of its life.
You refuse to let my words be shouted
across the plains
of the place I've called home for so long.
I feel my faith trickle away
like the ink down my back as it
fades
fades 
fades  
fades away   
I miss my power, the power of ink as it
s
l 
i  
p   
s    

f     
r      
o       
m        

m         
y          

v           
e            
i             
n              
s.               

i'm dead.