I am walking.

I am traversing the beaten path,
Passing by crowds of faces;
All of which are unfamiliar to me.

Hollow alleyways
Full of hollowed people.
People who would hope
If hope were left in them.
However, it is no longer there.
The bleeding hearts, the optimists,
The idealists, the revolutionaries,
They fall to the realistic hand.
They are beaten, abused,
Lacerated, dismembered,
Crushed, and buried by life.
And rightly so…

What is this realism?
So-called realists are no more
Than moody optimists.
But a true realism creates no façade.
A true realism precludes happiness,
For there is no happiness,
Only pleasure.

I walk in the rays of
Strained lampposts.
I see the drugs, the booze,
And the whores.
I know the pain, the desperation,
And the depression.
I’ve felt the regret, the uselessness,
The complacency, the hatred
And the inability to affect that
Which must be changed.
But so have the faces.
Those unfamiliar phantoms
That haunt the whole of the world.
Those living corpses
That make up the practical,
Real, truly human experience.

I am they, and they are I.
And so we march in solidarity,
Solidarity amongst strange persons.


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sophie harris

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