They are the dispossessed, the marginalised, unable to even fantasize
about what it’s like to be me.
I am a concept, an idea, elusive like the celestial spheres
that scald their star-gazing eyes as they ask the Universe why.
Why is it so easy to be demonized, patronised excluded into stylised
The scum of the earth, in print we defecate over any sense of worth
they cling to with illiterate fingers.
Yes we have the liberty of the freedom of choice.
To choose to be or not to be.
But they are placed in a cardboard box, stained with the remains from the rubbish drop,
the stench curling our civilised noses, as we turn away scornfully to smell the roses
of our tinted window-world.
Ignored, nameless, mocked and set apart as contagious
like a drunkard who doesn’t know his own strength
we pulverize them into emptiness.
We smack all sense of self-respect
fly-kick the embryo of discontent
into a premature birth
fuelled by rage, hate, the sense of being a mistake.
Like the remains of the amniotic sac
I make it quite clear they are not part of the pack
So, at last, they are beaten down without the sheen or value of gilded leaves
into a pervasive, persuasive and most importantly voracious
sense of relentless apathy.