PeoplePeople are presumptions.
They come in short and tall,
Wrapped in different colors and attitudes.
Some are grey and hungry like wolves.
Others - are rabbits in a hunter's trap:
Too scared to live, too scared to die.
To me, that's probably the worst kind.
Some people are airplanes.
Equipped with the right pilot -
They lift up from the ground
And sore effortlessly in the sky.
But without guidance -
They are stuck on the pavement,
Being nothing but heavy metal machines.
Certain people are whores.
They can be bought and used
At the right price.
Trained to please and entertain.
They don't always work on street corners,
But sit in offices, courtrooms
And even can be splendid politicians.
Some types - are outcast artists.
They live on colors and melodies,
Going for days without food.
They feed of music and create eternity.
Never awake to support:
They play with nature, not money
And stay children forever.
Others - are cannibals.
Cutting flesh from each other
And baking it in a little pan.
They don't care about past or present,
Living only in the now -
They are enjoying each bite
While the blood on the tongue is warm.
All of us are ideals.
Born into families of expectations,
We serve and serve,
While trying to overcome nature -
We become robots on the way
And claim to be all what we are not,
In order to be accepted.
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 774 times
Written on 2012-06-04 at 16:48
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