01/15. I'm not a Revolutionary

I'm not a revolutionary.
I live on the edges of revelations,
sitting on top of the cornucopia
and swing my feet for fun.
See, I don't hide between
the braided fibers,
other people's brick and mortar buildings
casting shadows on what I ain't got,
b/c my fingers already bleed enough
to fill the wells of your eyes,
pop those strained vessels
and ask you why are you stuck?
Stuck right there
sucking on pipedreams
that nobody sold you.
See you bought it,
invested your rusted pennies
in day old candy
and ran with happiness,
waited everyday for that fallacy fix.
I'm not a revolutionary.
I get pissed at stupidity,
so angry at ignorance
that I want to teach in the streets,
and you sit there,
drinking Monsters,
toxifying yourself by choice,
acting like I have no rights.
See, I am more than right,
I left,
quit the game,
gave birth to my own metaphysics,
 slipped it into some poet-tea,
and watch you,
b/c my aroma
is an elixir,
stripping you,
sip by sip,
leaving your purchased problems
in a pool
where you won't swim again.
I am not a revolutionary.
I breathe this battle,
the daily maintenance
of managing muse and mastery,
misery and magnificent,
like it's my life,
as if my children and grandchildren
need more than erased history
and incomplete reunion conversations
to make them wholly human,
wholly universal,
holy black.
I am not a revolutionary.