Not A Negotiation

It is time to put down the archaic tools, stop writing the story on a typewriter.

Crisp electric impulses pick up my hands, make the limp thoughts a ton lighter.

The system wants to eat too, it craves to lose my awards in a tiresome shuffle

But the blossoms on my shoulders cannot wait to push you towards a new scuffle.

You beg of me to quit spilling the truths over newspapers you used to own.

The ground shakes more and more as others realize – the cover is fully blown.

Some shredded pages mix with the February snow, what an idyllic scenery.

While you burn the belongings I left behind,

The smoke lingers over all your thievery.