The Machine (first draft)

I know it’s over when I see kids slipping;
Into the pictures, of these rich Olympic bitches snitching.
They are all still sipping, the cold blood out of this hood,
Tell someone they’re no good, and they’ll never come good.

Like a sort of sport, we are caught, marshes like Marcey.
And still tonight, we are shielded from the light, and so lastly;
That enlightens the idea that we might survive,
Writing to express our stories side.
Forever hoping to have the last laugh,
If we manage to find a way or set a concrete path.

We all have some fight
So please move on.
And forget the beauty of hindsight
That so patiently lingers long.

We sell ourselves no matter the night;
To do more than shine cheap trainers glistening white.
In the spotlight of the cop sight, we sell what smells right.
In the kitchen, mums on a mission to cook something enriching,
Crying like onions, we aren’t supposed to mix in.

Something more than skunk, robbing of ambition,
I left school with this poetic blinkered vision.
So you make a decision, with all these people making incisions,
That you won’t succumb to division,
Not forgetting squeezing religion.

Twisting and cleverly turning, a peaceful endeavour;
Into a Nazi wet dream, an idea of heaven.
But let’s at least outdo the East,
Our imprint struggles to find its feet,
In the shadow of this growing beast,
So readily policing our feats.

Finding strength and solace in defeat,
Only then do we accomplish dreams;
That comes like steady streams, waiting to gleam.
If ever they are seen;
By somebody who might discover what has been,
Between lines lies this unmovable machine.