Mint Condition – a poem

Hide, hide it all away, for expression

Is no more than the death of truth

And the nature of man; or so we have

Been told, moulded at ages younger

Than we care to think back to.


Be yourself at dire risk of being

Understood, your anger, wonder, hate,

All are subsumed by that horror hateful

Which seeks to make us into toy dolls

Fit for no more than being show

Items in appalling condition, wasted.



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