The enemy within

While surfing the net, I came across a poem,

I am posting it here and addressing it 

to all those people who have caused so much of pain to this world,

to all those who keep having a poor understanding and distorted view of God's creations, 

to all those who crucify Jesus Christ time and again, 

to all those who exile Mohammed from Mecca to Medina, 

to all those who wanted to kill Moses and Krishna when they were just children, 

to all those who tried to hide the reality from Gautama Buddha, 

to all those who killed MLK, Gandhi, John Lennon, Osho, Che Guevara...

to all those who have distorted the teachings of these great masters,

to all those who hide behind corrupt politicians, 

and to all those who torment me day in and day out with their distorted garbage,

especially the media garbage, the back-biting gossips and the hidden envy, 

and after which of course, 

they judge(misjudge) me based on my honest reactions, 

 they don't even know how much they hurt,

how much they hurt the world, 

how much they hurt themselves, 

and they just go on smiling as they kill,

and I am only filled with compassion for them,

but I'm human 

not an angel,

I have to protect my loved dear ones,

live a brilliant life,

and go on 

rock n roll.

So here goes nothing...

Don't tell me what's wrong with me 

Don't tell me what you think you know,

what you are so sure of,

that you simply must share with me...

point out...


shove down my throat!

with all your postures and diagrams and charts

and reasons and rationales and lofty wisdoms.

You kill my love for you by inches.

Each "telling" slams me backward 9 miles

and I look at you then through a lens

darkly and distorted

with hatred and distrust.

You think you know so much.

You think you have such large understanding of me

of my pain

of my patterns.

You don't really know me

or hear me

or see me.

And by these great truths you proclaim (always about others...)

you show your own true colors.

The air must be thin up there,

so high up in your head.




ragged understandings

without compassion

or fullness

or real true understanding.

And if I dare to tell you what I feel (foolish! foolish!!!)

where I hurt (unthinkable! dangerous!!)

what I have found about myself

by my relentless movement (I wish you would notice THIS about me!!)

If by some strange courageous attempt,

I dare to tell you what I feel

... If I dare to open my heart to you ...

Don't gloat.

Don't say "I knew it"

or "I told you so"

or "That's what I thought"

or any of your









I don't care if you ARE right.

I don't care what you see...

what you know...

what you think you know.

This telling, this gloating, this "I'm so smart"

is your way of ensuring your survival.

But I don't care if you survive.

Because your survival depends on my wrongness

On the wrongness of everyone you meet.

I feel it with every breath you snort in my direction.

It slams me back 9 miles

and I see you through a dark lens

hideous and distorted

You are a lurking beast


a huge balloon head atop mangled shoulders

You go about busily

feeding your head with

critical knowings.

Feeding the furnace of

the better-than, know-it-all, smug, superior, CRAP machine.

Do you hear me?

Will you ever hear me?

Or will you bolster your position again?

Tell yourself that this is "justified"?

That this is your "free expression" of how you feel

and therefore should be allowed

should be swallowed

should be chewed and savored and blessed

and then begged for...(thank you sir may I have another?!!)

It's a lie you tell yourself

Feeding your head,

feeding the dark consciousness hovering over your shoulder,

grinning at me gleefully.

Perhaps superiority is the only "feeling" you know.

Perhaps you don't know anything else.

And you wield the knife of guilt

sharpened and honed...

You require that we bow and scrape

and accept and allow

and beg for more.

To be "good", we must become proper little supplicants

practicing our willingness,

open our mouths and turn our cheeks,

smiling, staying in the game...

bare our backsides and let you you "teach" us

the error of our ways.

What's worse...

You demonstrate how it should be done

how to swallow the bitter pill

and like it.

You "take" instruction

you listen and nod and allow

you chew and savor and swallow

you thank your tormentor and

ask for more.

Then you smile at me and say

"See, that's how it's done."

So good you are.

So grown up.

So evolved.

So kind to show me how to be a better person,

if I could only be just like you.

You carelessly slice and dice

and watch me bleed with aloof disinterest,

and judgments, so thin and piercing.

I have no weapon to return the wound you inflict.

I have no way to reach your absent heart.


Be gone.

Feed your head elsewhere.

Chew on somebody else's tender core.

Mine is not for you.

Not anymore.

From cyquest

And this next piece is from John Lennon, just as a complementary to the poem above:

Working Class Hero 

As soon as you're born they make you feel small

By giving you no time instead of it all

Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all

A working class hero is something to be

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school

They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool

Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules

A working class hero is something to be

When they've tortured and scared you for twenty-odd years

Then they expect you to pick a career

When you can't really function you're so full of fear

A working class hero is something to be

Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV

And you think you're so clever and classless and free

But you're still fucking peasants as far as I can see

A working class hero is something to be

There's room at the top they're telling you still

But first you must learn how to smile as you kill

If you want to be like the folks on the hill

A working class hero is something to be

If you want to be a hero well just follow me.

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