Fraudulent

By kwankwan (http://www.flickr.com/photos/kwankwan/193384939/) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

I give up
like a man who's had enough.
You can put up
anything in my face, I use grace, I'm off the cuff
against a fist, a gun, a knife,
it's like my life
is on the tip of the blade,
I had enough of the stress and strife.
Like I'm exhausted,
like it just cost too much
to give a fuck what you think
of how I lost it.
I get accosted,
I get embossed in
a matrix of fake milligrams
of vitamin monsters.
I'm on the roster,
the teeter totter,
topsy turvy
from the quake of workplace mobsters.
It's through my veins,
it's like a lane
with Mack trucks on each side
of my electrical brain

waves.

There's no direction
but clear perception,
it's like explosions
in the midst of resurrection.
There's no conception,
no middle management.
I destroy what's in the middle
where the damage is.

It's like they're vapid,
I go flaccid
when introduced
to their hate and itchy fabric.
I don't need static,
I don't need magic,
I don't need to be told
what I know is automatic.

Like Crispus Attucks,
I wonder why
I fight on the side
of people planning my demise.
They lie and try to spy
the Eye of Horus,
but looking through
a pair of pupils too porous.

I got my fill,
I know the deal,
I could be killed
by the red or the blue pill.
I want the red
and when I'm dead,
it will be death rites
for that mess they put in my head.
Is it me?
Is it you?
Is it true
that we should do
what we're supposed to do?