Treason

Elite grouped around faux wood,
Fake personalities that outrank
My treacherously dead brain cells.

Wrong place. I scream.
Place. Person. Time. Choice.
Wrong-wrong-wrong.

Screaming and writhing in pain
Under the weighing expectations,
Heavy glances and thick impressions,
Knowing they will fill the world
With positive dronish ideas.

Songs of perfection and patriotic faith,
Philosophy of nothingness and essays on depression,
Pathetic poetic emotions.

I am not
Amazing, they say.
Unique with my thoughtful irony.
An individual soul.

"It is treason," I cry.
And nothing more.