The Scream
Awake in a nightmare dream,
reality can't keep pace.
And like Munch's painting, "the scream,"
anxiety warps my face.
Rank smells announce my coming,
roaming the land of the blind.
For folks reduced to slumming
stink of sweat and piss combined.
Draped in garbage bin fashion,
I strut about ten feet tall.
And though dirty and ashen,
I'm invisible to all.
Victim of hypocrisy,
I'm treated like common trash.
And despite democracy
I have no rights; without cash.
I'm more a myth mired in doubt,
kept out of mind, out of sight.
For a whisper cannot shout,
and a ghost; evades the light.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2016
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