ESTRAGON. — Les gens sont des cons.
Born into the family, an alcoholic dad, an enabler mom
left with the torturers, my brother, my cousin, and their schadenfreude
on good days, all alone, I prayed to understand their laughter and my tears
on bad days, drunken rage, a cheetah in a cage, eat your food, nom nom nom
different than all the rest, smart, bright, loving and sweet, crush the gift, crush it now
yet, I survived childhood, unlike others who died, I wish I were but no
if I entertain you, to the Devil, read on, I became an adult
gave up on all my dreams, went to school, went to work, sought out the exploiter
no one can understand why another suffers, to exploit other's fears
organized religion, people believe in myths, sacrifice as a cult
rapture, the afterlife, I believe in each kiss, tipping the sacred cow
art within poetry, decades to fabricate, but what do people know
nothing but their own lies, afraid of life and death, people are idiots
that after fifty years, thirty years of meetings, therapy and what not
asinine, donkey ears, I hear the arguments, I fly by all those nets
perhaps I lack success, I failed to kick a goal, I'm no Odysseus
ever not to return, unlike the Greek hero, I am but sold and bought
since my birth in Bombay, this life has been absurd, karma places her bets
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