Be it Tracy Chapman "Don't ya know, I'm talkin bout a revolution now"

Be it SOAD: "Revolution The Only Solution"

Or even Slipknot "WE, we are the new diabolic, WE we are the bitter buccolic, if I have to give my life you can have it, but WE we are the pule of these maggots"

There is a universal call for revival, for revolt, for REVOLUTION.
And do you know what one stray fact I've gathered that is a positive aspect of this word, cast in aspersions, proported in phrases, lifted in terms, what is it that makes this so appealing to the media, to those thousands of hopefully hopeless dreamers, rising to a fall in the music INDUSTRY?
Revolution Makes A sh*t Load Of Money.

I hear the word, and it sings with the inner grace, screams with the intrinsic compulsions, serendades my earthly, mortal, nature.
To live is to die, to be is to be free, to be free is to want more freedom.

We're all hungering for change, but clutching in corpulent distension of facetious oblivion to the unerring. WE Hunger. WE THIRST for this 'democracy's' blood. We feel the desire. We shake with rage.
We Are Then Overcome With Apathy.

Revolution Makes A sh*t Load Of Money Though Doesn't It?

I listen, I learn, I intake, I Watch You Fail.
You Don't Want Freedom, you want comfort.
And you don't even need comfort when you're constricted too far, so long as you have habit. Let Me Reassure You With Habit.

Make it a habit to be heard.
That is what they say isn't it?
What the billboards programming our children in their facetious facilitatory institutionalizing corporations named 'Schools' are isn't it?
"Be An Original, It Is Always Worth More Than A Copy."

The REAL message is be THIS copy and we'll call you an original before we give you a nice little toy.
Exploited like a toddler with a happy meal.

The public cry for the unique, the want in these times of the individual to be able to call themselves their own person, but who IS their own person?
Who lives like they want to?
Who calls themselves Unique?
Many perform the latter without due thought to the duo of formers.
Unique is so hard to come by these days, no longer is expression warranted in the clothes adorning our bodies, it is all packaged, produced, marketed, SOLD.
And you SELL with every thought of how neat that shirt is, how UNIQUE that shirt is.
What if I told you I know a girl here in Bum-F*ck Missouri who had that same shirt as you?
What about the man in the same berret that was shipped under the guise of obscurity to thousands.

I listen, I hear the hum "Man the gov. is F*CKED,
The Country Is Goin To The Dogs."
"Where is my representation man?"
Do you know what it is?
What these whispers of discontention within the multitudinous ranks of humanity are?
They are facades bought and sold in the record companies.
They are murdered individuality, thrown about you like a fur-cloak to disguise your disgusting truth.

I don't mind if you like the government.
I don't mind if you have hope for the paths changes are on.
I'm happy if you're happy with the thought that this as happy as the world can be, or that happy will soon come in the world we see.

But I Don't want to hear one more denouncement followed by a vapid alibi.
NO MORE will I choose to listen to you whore yourself for an image.
NO MORE should you be allowed to whore yourself and then go home to type our your mature approach to individualism.
NO MORE will I let you speak to ME about individualism when you can't even define the term for yourself.
You disgust me.


But what if you are an individual?
Good For You.
What if you tell me you are an individual?
I probably won't believe you.

It's All About The Benjamins.
And REVOLUTION Makes a Killing Doesn't It?

I believed it, I listened to Ms. Chapman make money when she sang of a peaceful overturning. I thrust my fist into the air with Corey Taylor when he bellowed of his revolution, or anyone who turned the ideal into an idyllic idealology to be capitalized on by the oppurtunist suits in the padded, leather swivel chairs, 40 stories above LA's hollow millions.
Who turned my hope into in an INDUSTRY.
An INDUSTRY that sells DIY philosophies on Addidas shirts.
You've been had.
You've all been had.
And if you haven't, then you're just on your own.

I don't ask for a pitchfork brigade to storm the monolith of travesty garnishing our nation. I don't want to regress to pernicious retrograde. I want the individual to stop thinking he is, to stop convincing himself that she is, an individual.
You think, you breath, you pulse, and palpitate with your own thoughts and creations, ingenuities.
But You Aren't Yourself Any More Than The INDUSTRY Lets You Be.

Look At Angelina's Ass, and damn I've got to have that dress...

Stop Buying THEIR Line, At Least Feed Yourself Your Own.
It's not as though I don't see the hopeless truth behind it.
It's not as though I actually believe things will change.
This Is Me Telling You, You Disgust Me,
Because you're never going to change.

You're never going to be yourself.
Not anymore than you were yesterday.

Stop worrying about being an individual,
REDEFINE INDIVIDUAL.
Fit your own mold.
But above all, stop trying to convince me you're an individual.
That is the initial signification of an extorted soul, when you feed me a line chanted by thousands of youths from this generation which has been fed the line that being unique is the 'way to be'. It IS the only way to be.
And it IS ALSO the one thing you can't TRY to be.
The one thing you can't FOCUS on being.
It flows, and you supress it.
Don't tell me you don't, just don't.

You're going to stop reading this and remark on my pretention, discourse about my arrogance.
"Who is he to tell me this? All holier than thou and sh*t..."

You're going to even think about proving me wrong.
You're going to meditate on the possibility of my truth.
I don't care if you say I hold truths in my words.
I don't care if I'm violating into the lofty heights of supercilious preposterousness.
I don't care if you bother to listen to me, and then think about going out to change yourself.

The truth is, you're going to stop reading this, and then go back to your daily lie.
So welcome the facade, here it comes to greet you once again, as I dismiss you from my presence.
Give his ass a good licking for me will you?