The Fires Of Frustration

Hear our voices, all of you, men of resentment

Whose stomachs and souls are aflame

With the poisonous hatred of impotence

You whom have been wronged again and again

Wiping your face clean, day after day

From the spit of those sitting unjustifiably above you

We will grant you freedom from freedom

We will burn and not explain

And this will feel ecstatic

As thou cometh unto us

We shall ease your sense of frustration and isolation

From your mouths will flow endless rivers of black bile

You will regurgitate the quintessence of failure

And in the depths of the night

Feel the warmth of equity

Recovering your shivering body

You're longing for flames engulfing the desirable things of yore

And the drowning of the successful in crimson oceans are tainted

By the aching premonition that your marches

To the cries of all or nothing at all

Will, of course, yield the latter for you

We will grant you freedom from freedom

Together, we will burn and not explain

And this will feel ecstatic

We will give you just enough of a taste of paradise

To feed your unsatisfaction and turn you into feral dogs

There's a grave at the other end of this metanoia

A grave large enough for your former and future self

O hound, feral dog

We shall grant you freedom from freedom

Relief from frustration