Spaketacular

I eat, but there is no fill.
The chasm just gets deeper, the hunger pangs only get stronger.
I sleep, but I get no rest.
The fatigue keeps me weary, my mind switched on.
I smile, but there are no corners.
The faces are clearer, but they aren’t any friendlier.
I speak, but nothing is actually said.
The voice is vainglorious and bereft of meaning.
I listen, but the words are jumbled.
Guttural utterances lacking a purpose, no information shared.
My hands move to help.
They are misunderstood and slapped away.
My heart seeks to love.
It is denied.
Life is worth living, they say.
But who are they, and why do they get to say it?
I have eaten too much, and slept far too long.
My body is unfit, and wanting.
Salesmen slip me panaceas of gods and gold,
and cajole me in filling their coffers with my soul.
Smile, says the police man, in black riot gear,
Your rights were a pipe dream. No one cares.
Entertained around the clock, the screens brightly lit.
Faces staring at nothing, the pretty ones show their teeth and purr.
I am a resident of a living city on a dying planet.
The future isn’t ours to meddle, though only to our benefit.
Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding feet on which I stand.
A tourniquet is just as good as a bandage.
I think cut it off entirely, dealing with it just takes time.
Time is money, and we’ve none to afford others.
I see hungry children that should get jobs.
They’ll better learn the value of a dollar.
Coughing and wheezing without a penny to the name.
The sick knew what they did, and sinned.
I’ll stand in the soup line for warmth in my belly.
Murdered for a loaf of bread in an economic upturn.
I’d say life is cheap, but it depends on who is living it.
Passels and penances, a law’s proper order is to subdue.
Tears form at the edges of my eyes, blurring reality with my dreams.
I cry.