The Chess game gone stale, when the Monarch's pulling every plug as I'm obliterating his matrix of oppression and limitation, outnumbering me, yet the mighty Mason outpowered, outclassed and left to wallow in his blood.
Tell me, old sport?
Is another rigged accolade going to do the trick?
Another bought out award, perhaps?
No?
Okay buzz off from my face then, as I disappear into darkness, when you've groped with the reality of your public debacle, a public, humiliating and vision-salting defeat.
In the Creator's stronghold I trust, and by the sword of a Wordsmith, I'll cut down the wires of your so-called power exerting, spineless dominance.
Photos of 3 participants to this Mind Control Program below:
The "Indian" Directors of CP Group, of Chinese/Thai origin, talking a big game in our country, and then rushing to befriend you on your socials for hidden ulterior dark motives.
For the great grand finale, my poem, featuring, rubbish "Assistant Directors" to the "MainMan":
ZechMate to my old mentor & his dismantling troop
// poetry
It's check mate
My old friend
I played by the law,
But every rubbish rule I bent.
It's time you concede
With your hands behind your head
I'm the mouth of every oppressed
Every stomach oppression fed.
Yes, I've bled...
But nothing is under the rug
I'm coming straight for your head
To squash your self-esteem like a bug.
You use our emotion
Like a pepper spray to our own eyes
Coercing us towards deathly choices
Clapping when the innocent and gullible dies.
I will dance to your funeral,
I'll throw a spread for my daily dinner,
The Mortal Mason has been buried,
While the Supreme God, the undisputed Winner.
I thought I left you out cold
Barely a chicken in India you sold
You stuck like persistent gum to my shoe
Cause I didn't join your complacent communist fold.
Strangely stalking us
Like a fan on the sidelines
A vindictive fan at that
You showed love with taxes and fines.
Unwittingly experimented and tested upon
Am I a little rat in your eyes?
You should have taken our consent
Not left us drugged amongst Thais.
Little Joseph Mengele in the making
Puts us on a bus on irregular times of the day,
Experimented upon us to his heart’s content,
Then sent us back the same way!
Torturous handlers kept to oversee,
You said we were "Future CEOs", didn't you?
Under “your” domain they disrespected “me”
A befitting anti-venom I had to spew.
Making calls from that rathole
The Indian Office a deadbeat sinkhole
Keeps getting displaced after being caught
Lying wicked leader trying to steal your soul.
A beggar shall give this billionaire a coin
Such a miserly wicked man preying on us all
I’ve been told no one’s indispensable,
The bigger the tycoon the harder the fall!
Your complacent company of goons
Spiteful and covert snake in the grass
Camping on our morsel of food and our spoons
A fixed exam where you've rigged every class.
A couple devious company directors
Company woman who popped up asking for my email
Accompanying my existing headache, this phony director
Copies our work when her co-working space looks deadbeat pale!
Another Director with an alias rhyming with "Ran"
Keeps reaching out off the records on chat,
Just a bunch of sleazy ploys from this year
When declined, humiliatingly brushed off under mat.
Creativity and talent you claim to nourish,
All you wanted is slaves cleaning the drain,
You claim to build Future Leaders & whatnot,
You've authored "Future Vengeful," throwing your carcass under train.
I don't regret
The shoe I threw
Your deadbeat job
I flung and flew.
Like an immature spoilt sport
You dealt with nothing well,
Your curseful magic trick of barrenness,
But now I'm reversing your spell.
On behalf of the future
I curse you dry
Your chicken wings clipped
Now let's see you fly.
Mic-Drop. Spits on the Mentor's head and walks of the Soothsayer's Leadership Institute Stage.
