I’m about as violent as the pastel shades
you use to color something pure and beautiful.
I’m not either of those things.
I’m the embodiment of the breathing hypocrisy
that finds shelter under the pretense of
living under subservient cracks
along the walls of an institution
gold plating mediocrity
through the hands of an entitled Midas.
Yet, I recognize myself in the ugly shade of red
that covers the same wall that seeks to rebuild
a Colosseum for the rat races
none of us ever wanted to become a part of.
But, here we are.
Gladiators in our own twisted illusion of free will
battling it all out
for a race that’s already fixed.
I become the tinge of gray that accompanies
your guilt as it’s taught to justify your
subconscious affiliation to a system
that thrives on the chaos that upholds it.
And as this guilt eventually progresses into submission,
you decide to stop fighting, knowing well enough that
somewhere between the purity you once found in pastel shades,
to the defiance in red and compliance in gray
you grew up to understand,
entitlement is not a privilege that you can afford.
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