Destiny

My baby I m so proud I think I ll name her Jen She - 1784826670518I think one of the reasons I write this blog is because I see the middle-class and the working-class, disappearing so  quickly — more quickly than at any  time in  human history — and in a century or two, there will only be US and Them.  A new feudal society.

We outnumber them, but they have the money, the stockpiles, the control of the food supply, the tech, the capital,  the weapons, and absolutely no empathy or even any concept of  what that means.

I pray things will change, but I don’t believe in prayer,  so I’ll  have to fight back while I still can.  I’m not a pessimist, I’m just a pacifist willing to fight as hard as I he can.  This is all the stuff you figure out while you’re lying half awake in bed, but never have the guts to actually say.

I actually say some of this stuff, but it mostly it gets me in trouble which why I live in  poverty and am somewhat despised by the bureaucracy,

How can you stand the silence
That pervades when we all cry?
How can you watch the violence
That erupts before your eyes?
How can you tell us something
Just to keep us hangin' on?
Something that just don't mean nothing
When we see it you are gone
Clinging to some other rainbow
While we're standing, waiting in the cold
Telling us the same old story
Knowing time is growing old. 

That was a wonderful remark
I had my eyes closed in the dark
I sighed a million sighs
I told a million lies, to myself, to myself 

How can we listen to you
When we know your talk is cheap?
How can we ever question
Why we give more and you keep?
How can your empty laughter
Fill a room like ours with joy
When you're only playing with us
Like a child does with a toy?
How can we ever feel the freedom
Or the flame lit by the spark
How can we ever come out even
When reality is stark? 

That was a wonderful remark
I had my eyes closed in the dark, yeah
I sighed a million sighs
I told a million lies, to myself, to myself
Baby to myse - e - e - elf
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About Drakakis

Street Poet scribbling to your tired, your poor, your huddled masses; the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, the homeless, tempest-tost ...
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