Subjected Poem by Vision Ghost

Tap, tap, tap, does this complacency of timeless din
For it’s all so beautiful then, until I seek it so within
As many an aggravation, draws this sinister thing out
Toward a living world, of unsuspecting mortal spout

So damn fed up of trying the hardest, for the weakest
Who seem to be raised to the degree, of the highest
Yet they know not of what is growing, of these seeds
That was placed by whom I know not, but it bleeds

As a frustration is building, from the heart to the hands
It all seems to be so much falling, as like golden sands
When the best is intentioned, and the minimal resulted
Sometimes wonder why I should, conform to the fated

Should’ve turned this up to deafen, the constant criticism
Of the misunderstood and, the demonstrators of imperialism
Of thinking that their methods of living, is that so absolute
So lost in their constant struggle, to be of social constitute

Clench this ability that seeps to the surface, of my character
Which finds not the confinement; of this unloving theatre
Always accustomed, by the practitioners of their trade
Unrecognised for their of any such, windowless façade

That renders a well fathomed train, of thought to the ashes
When an intelligent mind seemingly, finds their clashes
Of human endeavours, from subject socialism and ritual
Fornicated by the enslaved, of what is forever perpetual

Such fools that they can’t be, without their sense of pride
The constant unfed hunger, for the need to always confide
Maybe I should slow this down, and being one to ponder this
But the mix does little to consol, of their unsolicited bliss

Continuities progress, as in their circular mortal living
As is their ever random, yet impossible unfelt striving
To yet gain a mate, and be adorned by sexual adulation
Do you not realise, it’s been done before the population