Every Day Feels Scripted Poem by Mark Heathcote

Every day feels scripted.
'Choice' doesn't exist.
You feel like a piece of jerkin used meat, bubble-gum
spearmint flavor all chewed-up, a bit tasteless-
stuck between four, concrete-walls.
here's the ceiling the roof-
and here's your concrete floor carpet-less
sandwiched, always, partially non-existent.
Here you're told, you couldn't wish for anything more,
but sirs inside, you want only to be someone more.
Want only to have more,
want only to feel more,
be more than nothing.
But sirs that nothing they'll screw you-over-for
so you can't experience anything genuinely good.
Every day feels scripted.
'Choice' doesn't exist - you fool.
Or does it - if not then, why even has it.
Why have ballot boxes?
Honestly, I'd-rather-vote for none-of-the-above
than any of them toffee-nosed bastard snobs,
telling me; telling you, we're no good for nothing.
Except-for-watching Jeremy Kyle on the box
or working a zero-hour contract dead-end job.
Earnings so low, it'll exempt you from tax.
Is this to our American dream?
Soup-kitchens, food-banks, come-sirs listen, Fagin laughs
their tales are taller than long-necked giraffes,
look-there are better cared-for-animals in the zoo.
But honestly, you'll forgive them all
cause they and your country promise to care for you
no matter how big, no matter how small.