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