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(
[sid] => 42721
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Payne noW
[time] => 2004-04-11 08:18:17
[hometext] => One of my favorite poems from Gothictears.com, Using influence from a german poet from WW1, its one of my longer peices
[bodytext] => Payne noW Walls crumble and boundries tumble as years pass through from one to the next, Every time one passes, we regress our past mistakes, how we wasted our lives doing what-not and not what. The world seems a darker place now that evrything you hold dear has grown old and died, the feeling for mortality, seeps every vein of your dying body. From birth, you are occurst to this carcuss of misery and pain, sadness and torment, not remembering the 'good times' like you wished you could, you are left after the battle, to find your own way home, every sign pointing backwards, and the writing is illegible, and even then, the writing is in a language you cannot interperate. From the war, you are taken home, your name doubed with awards of valour and prestege while all the time you was fighting an enemy, fighting an enemy fighting who's an enemy. When he war is finished, and the killing fields grown over with grass and weeds, the stant reminders of the past destruction covered over, with a matress of poppies. Those who say we have peace, are our lying leaders, those who demand the people they let down, to break their fall. When the going gets tough, the population dies. Such as the people, who died in combat, lined the trenches and manned the guns of death and carnage, now occupy the bread lines and follow the soup wagons, hoping to get the food, to survive another day to fight to die for the next. Those who were under the leaders of the country that fell, are hungry and dying, and those whom serve under the victors of the battle, are still hungry and dying, Where ever there is war, there always is the lowely to fill in the castualty tables, they go to war under their lies of their leaders, their enemy is told is on their door step, so it is the ones who society need not care about, who defends the manor, the villa and the avenues, yet the slums burn under the enemies torch. They are told that the enemy marches onto them, but it the real enemy lies closer to your life, the leaders of peace, plot and commit their new wars to avenge the last, when all the time they say you are at peace you are the one whos leaders are the enemy, a translucent demon, marched towards their heads, like the chance their will be peace, as you feed with demon with your money. Like the young married couples, who's men go out to war, the young women bare their fruit of their whoms to the worlds grasp, to catch, and warp to make their leaders more profitable, this seed, come to birth, is now the seed of the new war, and its demons rapped in photo-genic battle fields of mud and barbed wire, shrapnel and flesh peircing bullets. When all the time they are told, your enemy is here, the reality is that they are already at war, they just have to fire the muzzle of the gun, and then the coffins fill up with the corpses of those who thought they where at war, not having to die for it, they simply needed the money to pay for their food. So the cycle of the depression, from the soup lines to the front lines, man has allways caged the man who can't aspire to greatness, and so we continue this idea of perfect world and moral society, based on the dead of past wars, dying of present wars and living of the future wars. the last great men have been destroyed to make way for those who can capture the responce of the people ignorant views, the ones who have been condemmed to the bread and cheese, who have never tasted greatness and will die never having tasted greatness, It is frownd upon and low, to talk of food, but we have yet to eat, yet those who promise good times and new life, have already eat their fill. The poorist of them all, no more poorer than the richest man is in morals, yet the poor fend for themselves, and is punished for it, becuase the rich, can't feed them their food, because they fear it will be contaminated by their plagues and diseases and the leaders not knowing the poor's hunger, don't offer to feed them, simply promise them its their role to work their way out of quick sand, weighted down by the banks loans and bloody money. And in the end, they go off to war, knowing that they will have a better time dying for a commander than dying for a leader, but they would want to have a voice, but still find themselves, the pawns of money and abusive power they will not control. Then the population thinks for its self, when the propaganda posters covering the rust and decay of the corrigated steel walls of the new and prosperous world, that they built, but are denied so they say General, your tank is mighty, it crushes forests and smashes a hundred men, but it has one defect, I needs a driver General, your bomber is powerful, it flys as fast as a storm and carries more than an elephant, but it has one defect, it needs a mechanic General, Man is very useful, He can hunt and he can kill, BUT he has one defect, He can think. Inspired by briswald brett german poet during the depression of 1918-1939 and bear haunting realevance today [comments] => 2 [counter] => 156 [topic] => 41 [informant] => 01_zanzebar [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => political )
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