This is called weeding with a wrench

Poetry:

This is called weeding with a wrench.

Bored between conflict here and diamond there,

I dug myself out of the trench;

This is my uprising, like the poor man’s revolt;

Against the hunger and these crooks, squeezing me in my right turns like bolts;

But I should slow down; Take a seat and relax my crown;

It seems-stress can sew fear and loathing;

Clothing for those who oppose;

I’ve been holding back, anger and tears that made my eyes glow;

In the dark I sat, with things on my mind like a hat;

I write it down to cure my frown;

One line at a time like a needle pulling thread;

Scribble scrabble;

Then the ink settles and they marvel;

Our trendy society, do you follow her singular thoughts that she breeds;

Swear to abide by them before I could proceed;

From truths to absolutes she had me crammed;

Sweet Plasma Jam!

I over flowed, grim to the brim;

So I write to take off some, like a trim;

On all five corners of my head;

Quietly hairs fall, and I don’t wait to drop my weight;

Not at all;

Spit it all out I say, it is bad what we ate;

Was it not my body’s need of bread, I would never bother with her dread;

Otherwise I would just be; and my words free;

Out on the sea, there; where no one censors or gets taxed;

But I am in on civilized land, where the majority is walked on like sand;

Careless steps repeated by only a few;

By morning dew and things look new;

This is my chance;

I’m open for a change to be;

Strange at first, the look of things in range;

Rover rolls over clover;

The envious greens;

All eyes on me, and mine on your money;

Rhymes in my sight are bright, all the time, not only when it is sunny;

Weeding through life’s humors, which are not always funny.

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