A whinge is good, sometimes

Someplace, sometime, allwhichways,  contrariwise,

But the why of it, why is it happening to I?

Nowhere atall

TV switched on and sound of cults of capital, churning out,

And a psycho, moving in and out reality, as mum follows along a propaganda show

So I go outdoors, where Lives the World, with neighbour taunts,

The cat I love, little angie they call it beastiality, cause I guess they don’t know

The suburban jungle, on the pavement copping set-ups every 10 minutes, suspicious vans which follow,

People yell, men case our house, noone does anything,  rights have dried up into dust,

With schiz topped with severe social anxiety, I keep up,

I post on Facebook, and poems,  even political to help as I can,

And I’m weary of it, it’s pitch dark where I’m from, it’s dark as a dungeon, it’s without home,

And you’re the one I see thru it all, your face, above all,

And I looked up and had the feeling the hunter moon was looking back at me.