Prisoner of War, or to the Mouse, I Should Say

a poem about society and how we can become so easily deceived.

a spoken word is no better than a silent one.

the silent treatment after an argument

that you could have handled better than

the way you did.

the car door slams.

you bite your lip, knowing that whatever

happens from here is as random as

the throwing of the dice,

as the lottery of the mice,

laid under a microscope, cut open,

thrown around. that's you, in your little

cage, prisoner to your own mind.

prisoner to your own sound.

choking, choking underneath the guilt we call pressure,

living under the sin we shrug as "whatever",

taking chances with our families, our lovers,

and our enemies. taking a gamble, with odds

not worth the scramble.

i don't know what's worse.

shutting up or speaking up,

sitting down, or rising up,

staying silent or drinking

poison out of the cup.

what's worth, and is it worth it?

an equality that is never to be 

spoken of, only in certain situations 

and in certain opinions is it qualified

to be worth listening to.

our society.

nothing but mice feeding the sheep.

feeding the sheep the love that never

existed, at least without anxiety,

now we all have Stockholm syndrome.

now we all eat of the grass meant to 

leave us for dead or flat on our a*s,

and we don't even recognize or patronize

the ones who are lost.

is that because we are lost ourselves? 

Reviews

[Bowers]

very thought provoking, I love this piece, serious, emotional, draws the reader in. great job, I like what you've done here. very common, yet we tend to over look, or choose to be blind to what is happening around us. Awesome job.