bad poetry #50 – signed, ammt

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#50 – writing this dulled me

hell is complacency
with
uniformity like an eternity of
computer light occupying your face
cubicles like microcosms
of prison cells, mental wards
to lock yourself away in from
your creativity, imaginations, ideas…

the color gray becoming the
only color you see
your life defined by the same screens
of the same papers and lines and
lines and only ever lines
working because you exist to serve

the only conversations you make
are small, finite, minuscule
as shallow – no, more shallow –
than a teardrop of water
your thoughts have been repeated
a trillion times over in the
same patterns with no. change.

the same mindless
murmuring drones heard
with voices low with how
drained the volume of their lives became

every food – flavorless.
every noise – pure static.
every scent – subdued.
every sight – blurred, muddled.

but.
you chose this.
you chose puppetry.

#49 – juvenile angst

do i not have the right?
to be tired?
to be exhausted?
to be depressed?

do i not have the right to be tired?
because they believe i am young?
and being young means naive?
and being naive means childish?

do i not have the right to be exhausted?
because they believe i am invincible?
because they think i can never tire?
because they think i can’t be
stressed because of my age?

do i not have the right to be depressed?
because i am young and supposedly
don’t know the meaning?
because i am young and supposedly
selfish and ungrateful and vain?
do they believe i can’t be depressed
because they don’t think i look at
myself every day and hate myself?
and wonder what’s wrong with me?
and wonder why i am a freak?

do i not have the right to feel emotions that they believe are
limited to the so-called mature?
are my feelings invalid?
am i absolutely worthless?

because i believe that.
so help me,
i know i can’t be worth anything