 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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Runaway of words