You mourn of a dying democracy
In your borrowed words and acquired poetry
To some cheap claps and gasping hypocrisies
You think you have made a difference
You believe your three minutes of poetry is the ointment
This corrupt cosmos of rotten flesh and buried dreams needed to heal
Your soul touches your penis of an intellect
As your fragile ego masturbates into a commode of mediocrity
Wallowing in your made up pride
You gleam in shallow sweats of an assumed poetic genius
And as you walk back to the comfort of the four walls you call home
And as you light a cigarette sighing a breath of relief as if you've moved mountains
And as you pat yourself to sleep in the content smile of an imaginary win
Democracy dies a little more in the very oxygen you breathe
While you sell your poetry in the name of revolution
Capitalism looks right back at you, and says, "Bitch please"
You care about democracy only when it earns you the label of a rebel
Revolution doesn't start or end with your poetry
You talk about politics and philosophies and transforming the world
Change doesn't begin in the comfort of inexpensive internet and affordable single malts
The truth is, you're just another privileged cunt
Who hides their privileges beneath a make-belief victim card
An utter piece of shit who cares for democracy as much as for dogshit
Whose faiths and beliefs are ingrained not in their blood but in their conveniences
And if, even for a brief moment, the tables were turned
You wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on democracy
While you pee on the very poetry you once wrote and called revolution
Because, who needs poetry when they have power?
