Slaves of Cleanliness and Offence

Four Poems. A critique of political correctness.

There became a day once when,
News faked, confusion, and contradiction was common,
And clarity was almost forgotten.

Protests based on facts were unimportant,
Because evidence itself was uncertain,
And opinions, only of the baseless type,
Shouted. Permitting the bystander’s pitiful silence.

Not even shame was felt by the slave,
For the system encouraged their ignorance.

There they stood defiled of what could be,
Merely acting as animals,
Repeating the past actions of the societal tree.

The people, oh so weak they be,
Often offended.

Questions, questioning nothing but a thing that was always offended.
Offence is the bullet and insecurity, with the shooter unfortunately still confused simply because they have no answers, “no answers to my questions” said he.

At least the unquestioned also remained unoffended, content, and ignorant.

Puffed up were they.
By their pride they were puffed.
Yet existing as soft as a puffy sponge, like one used to wash a basin.
They’d drown in and out of water, only focusing on how wet they got and the high the washing soap gave them rather than the possibility of getting out of the sink itself.

Why get high on soap?

Oh how much they truely long to be free and out of that basin.
Sadly they still choose soap.
At least it makes their filth clean.
Forgetful they too are in remembering that there’s still dirt in that basin.
But at least they’re content with soap, for it gives them a taste of what is better.
For the basin is safe and comfortable.

Who wants to be outside a basin anyway?

They read.
This they read.
Yet the potential touch of freedom was robbed. Junk was already in their minds.
They were afraid of being robbed of pleasure, but ironically by continuously filling their mind with pure shit, they hoarded so much that truth and ideological freedom became eroded and forgotten immediately, for it was too scary for them to have an empty mind of a second of silence.
Their attention span couldn’t even comprehend that past phrase.

You fucking slave.

You think you’re higher than a farmer.
But even a farmer can be more free than you.
You stupid slave.

It’s not social class that your highness depends on.
It’s not your money. It’s not your degree. It’s not your likes.

It’s all lies to make you feel worth something in a system that treats you as nothing.
You ignorant slave.

You’re a slave.
Unconscious or conscious?

I ask again: have you become conscious of your own slavery?

If you’re conscious then set yourself free!
Anyone can be free.

Inspired by Nietzsche and Orwell’s 1984. Written in August 2019, in Iran.
This poem is intended to trigger reflection and self-awareness; not guilt or shame for being in a mindset that we often find ourselves stuck in.