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Culture is a Seductive Mistress.

Personal evolution
in suspended animation,
the true self like an insect
trapped in amber
as I remain ensnared
in the cognitive web.

Womb to tomb
to cradle onto grave
raped by the lie,
enabling the slavery
through silence
and other weaknesses.

The whole world tells us
what is best for us,
what we need,
who we are,
with no insights
to fucking justify.

Divided we stand
against the enemy.
Gather the townspeople,
light torches, conjure McCarthy
time to feed
our own reflections
to the flames
of secret self-hate.

We trust you,
you betray.
We lose touch,
bury identity,
fear sneak peeks
of our true face.

So alien,
so menacing,
save us with illusions
of normalcy.
Makes me sick and restless,
the dull taste of this conformity.

Tortured by conditioning,
caged within anxiety.
Fighting, never free
from the vice-like grips
of this relentless terror.

We are what we are,
and who, too.
That’s all.
That should be enough.
We don’t need
your fucking games,
sensitizing us
to true reality.

Culture
is a seductive mistress,
but like it or not,
you are married
to your nature,

a spouse found
amidst the psychological
scavenger hunt,
some assembly required.

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