Neat Little Boxes

Neat little boxes


Screaming on the top of the satellites

I’d like to turn you down but your knob eludes me

I can hear your calls to cube me

I fight to reject you, but you are relentless

As you offer me options and promise me variety

Purporting to enlighten, intending to indoctrinate


Bundled with others like sardines in a tin

I find no comfort in numbers, I need to be me

Sealed in this labelled coffer is my gagged identity

A voided idiosyncrasy I’ve come to be

Same ages and earnings, same colours and creeds

Strangers in the world, birds of a feather in this box


Marked with a bull’s-eye you think you’ve got me

You claim to know me when I’m just a target

As you subject me to your profit making point of view

Stimulated and excited I fall into you spell

Like a disease society can’t dispel

We lifelessly bow at your alter in our homes


Hungry for more you invite more packers

The sellers and seducers, your agents of vanity

Where needs are wants and wants are needs

A billion images and sounds, infecting my space

A lifestyle sold, a life to live derailed

Infants and geriatrics alike, no victim too small


A consequence of your actions I refuse to be

This box you’ve cast me in, this box called TV


Raging Staccato




About obialone
I'm random and unwise. I'm always seeking wisdom in its simplest form. I'm scared of not being scared, so I find ways to terrify myself. I care about everything, and I'm interested in all things. I reserve the right to change my mind, anytime. So in most cases I find it best to humble my opinion

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