You saw a meme on your newsfeed
that talks about you.
It was laughing AT you.
At your self-centeredness.
You were grouped together
with this bunch of brats,
millennials, you think, was the word.
You guys only care about your happiness.
But you are not happy.
You wonder why.
Is it because the meme is right?
Will you find happiness
in–it implies–serving others?
You thought you were
that’s the reason you are
in this cubicle
you have called home.
For home, the other one,
consists of too much yelling
of never enough,
why are you gay,
well, look at your brother
and his successful life.
You don’t want to look
at this tired trope you call life,
so you hand them half
to get them off your scolio-ridden back.
But you mustn’t complain
You mustn’t complain
about kidney stones
You are not supposed to talk about yourself,
or risked being grouped with those
who take selfies
instead of selcas,
because they would rather serve Western overlords
over Eastern masters
(you do not understand k-pop with their feminized men,
those fucking capitalists and commodified men;
you like traditional patriarchy just the way it is,
the one that pretends it is naturally macho and not capitalist;
pretension is always better
for there is poetry in concealing, you think).
So you drop your phone
in front of the mirror,
“You don’t have the right to be sad.”
Because you really don’t.
people are dying outside the pearly gates of your subdivision they are peeing under the bridge getting raped in bushes tortured in coffins by the barangay captain just because the barangay captain’s wife finds it funny while two blocks and two provinces away a motorcycle takes one swift turn and ratatatatat a teenager falls on the curb of the road for eating dinner with a group of seamstresses how dare that teenager overstep her boundary and talk to these underpaid seamstresses and basically,
As the meme goes, your argument is invalid.
You remember the poem of this poet
whose talent is reduced to her pretty face
for that seems to be something that should always be mentioned–
what does that say about the other female poets’ faces
who are reduced to their faces too?
You look at your own not-so pretty face
in front of the mirror
and remember the luxury of gender debates,
the luxury of despair
as the poet seems to imply,
do not be so ungrateful, bitch.
Do not be ungrateful of
who taught you Don’t stop believin’ ♪ ♫
and now finds it funny you’re believin’.
There are two worlds in this world, you see
(for people are only capable of dichotomies,
never getting past the formula of their favorite telenovelas)
and they are not fighting
for your soul.
Your soul is already owned,
speaking in the overlord’s
But it is all about you,
You are punished for being owned.
It’s all about punishing
Boohoo, poor you, they say.