A Protest Prose

This is a protest prose, sticking it to the pigs who whore us out to 15 minutes of fame, in any shape or form. They really really piss me off.

None of us are waiting to be discovered, you hear me? Look at me when I’m talking to you.
Just because you see us; just because you see us, now, suddenly, it doesn’t mean our warm breath never used to make fog on a cold glass surface.

We are not your discovery to make coz they ain’t no such thing. We already exist discovered far more within ourselves than you could ever know.

Start the clock.

And then you take from us those you think is good enough and then you take from us those most like you in attitude and aptitude and then you mould them to your liking and then you milk them for your thirst.

“That’s 15 minutes, Boss. Time’s up.”

You are revered for our existence when we are the ones straining to be heard and striving to be accepted.

I was fool enough to believe that my fog never mattered until you came, saw, discovered. Fool me once… Shame on me.

You’re not the pigs reining this farm. No, not anymore. We have strength in numbers as you laugh with your mannerisms and hypocrisy; most of us don’t fit your bill, or so you let yourselves believe. And the ones who do? The ones who do, already know the stench of the sweat that lay under your wing. You will not have me, so go back to your coffee house and mock me for I will not desert them, for I will be the next best thing since you and since sliced bread.

And at the dawn of the day when everything really matters, there’s nothing to sliced bread, is there? It’s just a regular loaf of bread with that unmistakable air of pretension.