Listening to Barry McGuire

I don’t want to listen to Barry McGuire,
Or maybe I do.
The whole thing seems depressing,
yet it gives me a perverse kind of pleasure,
like an s and m fetish,
only through politics and music.
Maybe I don’t really want change,
Maybe those who occupy are no different,
Maybe we need chaos for order,
Or maybe it’s all a natural progression,
Of mankind and political triumph,
Or maybe God,
being us,
will punish humanity,
like a masochist endlessly whipping his back,
Creating orgasms from pain,
Or perhaps the truth lies in death,
How many souls have died,
Fighting for truth?
Fighting for justice?
Maybe they know,
Maybe they always knew.
On the eve of my destruction,
I will hold my flower,
that I planted in love and haste,
I will hold the flower up to the sun,
I will say to the daffodil,
To the rose,
To the violet,
I love you, dear flower,
but I wish you were never born.

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