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 yet, dirty and ashen,
I'm invisible to all.
Victim of hypocrisy;
they treat me like backstreet trash.
And despite democracy,
all rights are tethered to 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
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment