Cheap Poetry

My purchase value, competition, the “survival of the fittest” race.

An economic system.  I feel the burden of every one of its cents.

On my back, a price tag. A number tattoed on my forehead.

A digit. Compress my time, my life. Efficiency at any rate.

 Throughout my lifetime, my art, on corporate charity, depends.

Being born is a business. Dying and living, as well.

Can we really keep acting like everything is OK?

It would mean something if at least we were aware.

The last century did not free all the slaves

–and I am not talking about psychological restrains.

Who makes our clothes? Who feeds the world?

Whose rights are violated?

Tied to a chair or a table

because one second means another

$32 t-shirt,

for which a worker is paid

not even a 0.1%.

How much progress have we me made

as a pseudo-evolved human race,

if our “modern” social systems

have served to create

sophisticated methods

of satisfying  destructive primitive needs,

and we have added

another animal-like priority to the list:

profit, economical gain?

This world is sick,

literally.