Tonight I sat alone on the steps
and stared into the blank sky;
stars cloaked by smog,
the poison of our own.
And as the bitter air bit down
I held my breath and thought
of all the others on their backs.
How do you organize resistance
against something that's not even there
(but still killing you)?
Dirt covered fists screaming indignantly,
midigate to out turned palms
pleading admittedly.
Raping people of their hope
and the sky of all its stars.
They're dying at your feet
but 'who cares who they are.' (right?)
There's no place like home.
"It's like filling an empty glass
from an empty bottle."
and it's stricken by rigor mortis
with your hand on the throttle.
Grasping at a chance through a wall
of austerity and a fence
of police enforced
by democratic vulgarity.
Two percent controlling the power;
controlling yo,
controlling me,
controling the borders of democracy.
So it's you, and it's me
and we're up against a fence,
control or be controlled
by only two percent.
So it's you,
and it's me and we're up
against a fence,
control or be controlled,
because only we can set us free.
