Archive for the ‘Hopeless’ Category

NZ_ Rotorua

Hope springs eternal (so they say).

Or, at least, it tries to.

But when our experience tells us otherwise,

threshold crossed,

overwhelmed by betrayal and lies,

that part inside, bleeding, dies.

We don’t want to be hurt anymore:

who can blame us for that?

… Hope springs, yes,

then spits in face,

disappoints,

evaporates.

Good bye.

 

(To be continued…)

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Drain 1

Cycle of humanity,

circling, swirling,

clockwise and anti,

every day …

further down drain.

(To be continued…)

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

 

Broken 3

 

Tired of life,

tired of strife,

self-centered people,

havoc, greed.

… Imbalance,

degradation,

despair …

Need relief,

peace,

love,

care.

Forlorn,

best hope

sleep.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Sitting on the bus

with the other convicts,

varying extents of self-awareness

on display,

I realize,

despite our differences

and hatreds,

we’re all the same.

Screwed.

Prisoners

of the choices

we’ve made

and/or

been forced into,

our names

long since signed away,

hopes and dreams

but a fading,

mocking,

memory.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

You pray,

you believe,

you hope.

Life goes on,

people suck you dry.

You get disenchanted,

disappointed

and exhausted.

You pray,

you try to believe,

you want to remember

what hope felt like.

One day you give up.

Soon, you will die.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Democracy, an illusion,

a dream rarely come true.

Can you really rely on others

to make the right decision for *you*?

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

The machine works,

ruthlessly,

the cogs grind me yet further,

marginalized

and screwed over

on a whole nother level.

Bureaucracy discriminates

illogically,

pedantically,

and with extreme fucking prejudice.

Bit by bit they are taking things away,

pieces of myself

being trashed.

Perhaps tomorrow I will simply disappear,

it seems to be what the system wants.

… My obliteration.

He sees his neighbours “getting on” with ease and wonders. He despairs at his lot.

What next for the man-child?

Suicide?

That’s what they want, indeed:

another fucked-up statistic to fuel the machine,

money,

corruption,

news cycle,

policy.

She lay down,

on the floor,

in a darkened room.

She asked herself, repeatedly:

“What is the way forward?”

Racing mind, confused and throbbing head,

by the tenth repetition

she changed the question to:

“Is there a way forward?”

She moved her left hand downwards.

Imagining herself,

something else,

she fell asleep,

boundless.

 

Weighed down by reality,

we struggle to find ourselves.

Too tired to dream,

we are old before our time.

Sleep, need to reset, recover…

And those times when you are “lucky” enough to dream, it is a horrible, polluted landscape, negative scenario, with banalities, people and stupid things you’d rather forget.

Imagine instead, what a wet dream must be like, a luxury wasted on stupid teenage boys, future abusers, presidents and kings.

Sigh.

Sick, sad things.

Unfair world and system.

 

“Fotzegeschicht!” she said loudly and with an agitated voice. Not because it was particularly helpful, but because it was appropriate.

 

No one understood.

 

Newsradio and overheard conversations on the bus,

whispers of love in your ear and familial banalities,

the more you hear the more you know that none of it really matters.

The more you hear the more disengaged you become, the more different you feel, the more lies which are revealed.

Talk is cheap, near and far, deafening.

Yet, you keep listening,

ever hopeful that one day,

perhaps,

it will be worthwhile.