Details |
Hyatt Michael Poem
(Introductory Note - my daughter (12) wrote this while she was required to sit in a room
with other students and study for the SAT. She was not happy and expressed her
dissatisfaction in this form. I am so proud of my girl and her flair for creating potent
imagery! She gave me explicit permission to post.)
Forced words, when the world falls short,
Choosing his feet; no passive transport.
Running through court, though wind, through reign;
His mind fenced in, an eminent domain.
Forced by society, to put thoughts in a algebraic form,
So they are understood, compressing a statically-electric lunatic-storm,
Water soluble words, dripping in product,
Secret meanings, an attempt to instruct.
Stealing knowledge from the mind of a scope,
From the abyss to the continental slope,
Up from the rocks, up from the shards,
Ignoring oil-soaked disregards.
Uprising, rising up,
Pouring out his soul, but shatters the King’s cup,
Screaming on the speakers, with the volume on mute,
Scaling the halves and eights, sharpening en route.
They cut the cord, but he holds on still,
Saving his words, despite an appropriation bill.
A blockade; militia, fencing them in,
Forming a subconscious, twentieth century, mental-Berlin.
The metal is heavy, weighing him down,
The message is equal, council to the crown.
Illegal spacecraft and antiaircraft guns,
Millions of daughters, waiting for sons.
Throw in the crates, fill the water with tea;
For censoring works to an intolerable degree.
A ban from your stations, communism.
Forced within the optical prism.
He can see the changes, REVOLUTION!
No evident changes, but an internal emergent evolution.
Burning the evidence, sealing the seams,
Beheading the law, igniting regimes.
The earth is alive, though burning to ash
Destroying the government, with his not-so-petty vocal-cash.
Utopia, at last! Although it doesn’t last.
Upsetting the politically graduated class.
Another revolt, a supposed solution,
Another demonstration of another Constitution,
A circle, a cycle, a nautical mile.
A restriction, a border, another forced smile.
We destroy ourselves; the machines look for daughters,
The need to progress; the constantly knowing human race falters
The tea-filled waters, turned red by a Moses;
Filled with regret ;an iconic place to reminisce.
Once placid waters, before our birth,
What the world really needs is chosen rebirth.
To be born into what? The question it seems,
The light on the horizon faintly gleams.
Copyright © Hyatt Michael | Year Posted 2010
|