Saturday, 5 December 2015

Killers of Joy

“Femme aux Bras Croisés” (Woman with Folded Arms) by Pablo Picasso (1902)

We linger until we become endangered
We would rather survive in climates of disbelief than confrontations of the truth
We hug ourselves in pity for no one will do for us, what we deserve
A house, is only a roof over our heads; we’re still wandering what makes the definition of
We’re so sick, for losing the competition of being the most miserable
Sadness suits us well, enough to the extent they don’t bother to change   
The glares they dagger in our direction leave scars on the inside only they can heal
The holes they punctured into the wall

The plumber begs for forgiveness after a bad job
We don’t love them
How can we lie with a reference
Genuine smiles are supposed to be contagious or they’re just another curve on our chins
A smile is sometimes a good disguise
A good disguise should fool even God
They water our ambition with illicit chemicals from the laboratory that they steal from
False hope is the biggest crime against humanity
Never make hopeful those you could never please

Our fibers are inhabited by selfish
We’re tense in the past and present
If only we actually are the products of our ingestion we could eat so many things to better up
Our lives are all we have
True warmth is not achieved with materialism
At midnight the wolves gather together to pray
We listen to their howling of sorrow to reinforce our own
Why won’t life happen, as we will  
How do we manage to weather even when we practically live inside