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Assumptions.

We’ve simplified the signified
To make these deaths dignified.
We’ve got a nation hypnotized
Through stereotyped eyes.

Lies transmit through airwaves.
Media mogul; the people slaves,
Remember not to misbehave.
We sell them what they crave.

Breaking news, read all about it
Is any of it true? Well, I doubt it
I just take it as it is, how I found it -
Can’t explain it all, so we round it.

Beige skin and a tea towel,
Daily Mail is the Holy Grail.
Ink turned rotten and stale,
Set it up for another sale.

Terror tactic,
In fact it
Is post-climatic,
Racist bullshit.

It’s so plain to see,
That this isn’t how society
Is meant to be;
Communities scared 
In their own community.

I’m not asking for a revolution,
I just expect some social evolution -
Where we can reject a media institution
And their bullshit view pollution.

Under the Wing of a Bird (NEW spoken word piece)

Listen to me 
And what I’m saying
I’m saying this for free
Or it wouldn’t be worth saying

I was born into a world
That doesn’t care for the spoken word
Take these syllables,
Take these words
Turn them into verse.

It doesn’t matter if they rhyme
It doesn’t matter if they’re out of time
Just say them with conviction
And they’ll pass this test of mine

Can you even pronounce diction?
I’m suffering a language addiction
But I’m without lawful restriction
So with these words I’ll create an accurate depiction
Of us acting outside my society’s jurisdiction

I don’t think we’re being particularly rebellious
we’re just not doing exactly what they’re telling us
You see, for me, these words written down mean nothing
You might think I am but I’m not even double-fucking-bluffing

It’s the way I verbally read
That makes these words lyrically bleed
Rhyming schemes don’t stand for fuck all
When these words can stand up by themselves
They don’t hide away and curl up into a ball
Instead they become a representation of ourselves

So here I am, before this microphone I’m stood
Clearly hoping that none of this goes misunderstood
We give power to words, like the air under the wing of a bird
A seed grows into a tree, and this passion continues to grow inside of me.

Lyric I wrote night before last at 3am.

what’s it like to live a life

to live a life by the knife

well i don’t know

sun sheds light on this grimy street

and i’m walking along by myself

finding it hard to find a heartbeat

i’m finding it hard to find a heartbeat

and i’m walking along by myself

will the sun fucking set?

black shadow silhouette  

walking in my direction

finding it hard to find a heartbeat

i’m finding it hard to find a heartbeat

as it beats below detection

sat on this wooden throne

dedicated to some unknown

they lived a life and then they died

and to this body my life is tied

and i’m finding it hard to find a heartbeat

i’m finding it hard to find a heartbeat

what’s it like to live a life

to live a life by the knife

well i don’t know

and if my time is borrowed

to whom do i owe this fucking loan?

well i don’t know

A Foreword to my Last Word

Through tired eyes I look up to the clouded skies
This is my foreword to my last word
I’d like to take a moment of your time to list my limited achievements
Before I go, uhm, die and let you get on with your bereavement
To the one that stole my heart, 
Well we did say we’d stay together until death do us apart
To my darling daughter,
Thanks for not pulling the plug, it still counts as manslaughter
Unless you go somewhere a bit more liberal
Like the Netherlands, where they don’t seem to care at all
To you, grandson, 
Be good to your mum when I’m gone
Like she has to me
Remember that though friends may come and go
You’ll always have family
*begin to choke*
Fuck

Religion.

When you close your eyes what do you hope to achieve,
Perhaps sudden realisation that everything you’ve ever believed
Has been false for your entire life; you’ve been nurtured by religion
And other superstitions that built their foundations built upon mysticism.
It’s not that I don’t want to believe, it’s just the evidence is overwhelmin’
And now there’s nothing for a careless heart to fucking believe in.

Thoughts that I have fought.

I have all of these thoughts rushing through my head

But I don’t know what to do with them,

So I’ll forget them instead.

outofherhead:

I’ve often wondered if some of the poetry that we consider great today, something that was written, say a hundred years ago, was posted on tumblr, but the author an unknown, I can’t but wonder, how many likes it would receive?

People write amazing poetry every day, some it is probably good enough to be put up there with the others but if you’re unknown then you have a smaller platform than the bigger people regardless of your talent. It’s unfortunate but true.

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