Even
The hippies
Held jobs.

But me?
I can’t
Just settle

To wait
For loss
Incarnate

When work
Means art
Comes last –

Where hurt
Is painful
Sex

And misery
Finds us
Begging

In bed
With dreams
Less stellar

Now fucked
Without much
Love,

For applause
Is hardly
Grand

And rewards
Such easy
Payment

After chasing
Down our
Freedoms

So forever
Is sweet
Escape

From lives
Of stolen
Men

Old gods
And empty
Blessings

Like hopes
Which keep us
Willing

Though hells
I must not
Yield.

– J. Pigno