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Poetry

Runaway of words

 

By Naz Rakhshandeh
September 4, 2003
The Iranian

Depression
and a tablet called Prozac

oh it's war it's war it's war

no audacity
my soul deprived of sustenance
my mind

like public shit-holes

unmanned

oh why aren't I happy?

all the devastating news of this affair
the human affair
this chronic pain.
pretty depressing stuff

we do have an anti-depressant though

a tablet called Prozac

with it, comes a happiness

that's fully guaranteed
nothing else quite works

I know of a man

his friends call him

Prozac Jake

he's no longer taken by
words that every teacher's taught him
or the ones he remembers

of his parents

the game is;
survival of the fittest
they've declared
the joyless

are ones who cannot fit

this chronic pain

oh it's war, everywhere, it's war
the complainers
wasting their lives

the concept of happiness is out
without it

life is wasted
In a godless world
there is fear of freedom
Prozac works though
happiness is a tablet taken over a period of time.

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