Venom’s turning poisonous; killing medicine. This is mutiny, and I’m an established mutant. Thorns’ embedded. I’m agitated. Rose withers. Rot’s the lot. Everything’s wrong. Nothing’s right. Ruse is here. Acceptance is a rejected joke. No one laughs. It’s burdening. The jokes’ on us. I’m a clown wearing a frown in a telling uniform. Birth’s a ticket. Life’s a circus. Show’s endless. And I’m in a participating cast. Brainless. Clueless. Pointless.
Your honor- I’m guilty as charged. Hopeless victories count for naught. Time to declare what you aren’t. Time to expose your fraud. I’m a hoax. Boat’s leaking. Captain’s lost. Water’s rising. No sync. No swim. Drowning death. But again you wake up. Deathless. Fraught. Groundhog Day’s here, yet again. Merciless.
I don’t know better. I know worse. This confession is just another accursed verse. The Masters are leaving, one painful reminder at a time. We’re not worthy. We are unworthy. My merit is zero, negative. Collective merit’s a fast draining store. Nothing positive. There’s bargain and barter. Locally made and globally sold. We’re all held. All on hold. No one here’s bold. Everyone’s caught the flue. And the cold.
I’m depleted. I wanna get deleted. But the trash-bin refuses to empty. Its garbage-out, garbage-in. I’m a waste. Incomplete. Unfulfilled. I’m tiring but don’t get exhausted. My faith is flimsy, and pathetic, refusing to grow, yet refusing to die. Goodbye. My belief is shaky, but it won’t tremble. Either you go hellish, or you go heavenly, what’s this limbo? I can spell Emptiness and Fulfillment. And that’s it. There’s no meaning. You take what you can, and suffer.
It’s bad, but it doesn’t get worse, and that’s all the more frustratingly stagnant. Its one-small-heart-attack at a time, never dropping you dead. It sounds suicidal, yet you don’t die. Death keeps recurring, but life’s still elusive. And life’s what you want, even if it means giving up life. Quite the enigma. What a conundrum. Average. Medium. Neither hither nor dither.
You don’t know who you are not. All you’ve known is yourself. Shallow. Safe. Sedated. One more name playing the samsaric game. Your flesh and blood and bones are made of plastic. Rubber manufacture. When you die they’ll certificate you dead. And right now when you live they’ll document you alive.
You learn the ropes. You believe you were really truly born like this, that you were faithful to the system; that you’re a torchbearer of right from wrong. Following formal gist. Ensuring status quo. You’re an entity. A free slave. Permitted to choose. Entitled obedience. You’re legal fiction bound by a yoking jargon. Fair liberty’s a dark secret openly quarantined.
You don’t even die anymore. You expire. An accounting number. Fabricated. Body and soul-printed. Your eyes have been scanned. Your face is digital. Your life a paper-pieced together. Beguiled and filed. And you wonder why you feel so burdened. And you wonder why you feel so tired. You wonder and you keep going berserk day and night. Administrative fright. Murder by bureaucracy.
Until you spot the bleeding scarecrow you’ll be a Strawman.
Until you free yourself from this bondage you’re a Strawman.
But be happy. The engine is breaking down. The machine is beginning to creak. The apparatus is beginning to leak. The mechanism is running out of oil. The device has come to a boil. Spot the matrix while you can. See the snare. See the scare. Burn away those figments. Cut away those ties. Exit.
Your flesh has been burned. Numbered. The spot where you get the most itch is the barcode being scanned. Your bones have been weighed-in, and now you’re a calcium-degenerating bogeyman. Your blood has been measured and the virus infected. Your brain has been classified, and now thinking is a crime. But you’re beginning to notice. Beginning to see. The lords of state are losing their iron grip, and this will set you free.
A Strawman is made. It’s not born. What’s made can be unmade. Do you hear yourself crying out for help Strawman? That’s your primal shriek, a voice they cannot diminish.
Have you ever feared you were never yourself? That’s the feeble-voice-inside crying-out. Do you wanna wake up from this day-dream? Have you ever had a fear about losing something dear? It’s always been around somewhere in your gut poking you with reminders that what you see is not what you get.
It tells you of an effigy. Something yearning to be touched. Breathing in the polluted air you never knew about the mannequin. You laughed at the scarecrows. You came into the world bloody screaming. Lucky are the ones who hurt. Mostly you go about it inert. It starts with a name that ends in shame. You were a stillborn slave the day you were documented. When they first capped the initials of your name. Thus they had you schooled. Rewiring your brain and plugging in a fool. When you graduated didn’t they dressed you in black? Your head, the beacon, has since been tapped. You mugged up their books. Passed their interviews. Congratulated thus, you garnered rave reviews. A career picked, you began playing their institutional blues.
Conforming night and day. When on occasion you rebelled you were made to behave. Toing the line became your thing. Blind obedience your bling. One fine day you lost the mind you knew and found the one you never did. And from that day on a little light did shine in.
Giving up your career you overcame a barrier. Cutting down your persona you became a no-man. Now on a journey you’re finding out what it means to recognize this dummy. And to kill the bogus. Fake by fake. Copy by copy. One replica at a time. Little by little. One by one. Day by day. One model at a time.
Until there’s no Strawman to fight, and a freeman appears.