Stormtrooper Culture (A Poem)
Updated: May 11
Public Conversation, public domain,
Is like a gathering of warriors,
Willing with ease,
To try and inflict verbal pain
On one another,
Should they find the slightest reason,
To do so, happily.
Why should the pain of another,
Bother me by a bit,
When I get to do what I can, what I want,
To a fellow human being?
Why should the sensitive, the anxious, or at best
The easily irritated, the stressed,
Be of any concern, of any consideration,
When I get to shoot them,
Like when the protagonist shoot the masked henchmen,
And see them collapse, one by one,
Like a series of dominos,
All with the trigger of my gun?
Why should I care of the weakness of the foes,
When the foes can be turned
Into my own preference,
-- From annoyed, to extremely furious,
Most especially when I cannot see their faces,
Their reactions, the consequences of my actions,
As it is all conveniently covered,
By the helmet of the web, far from physical contact?
They have thoughts, emotions, families, secrets, weaknesses and more,
But it can all be ignored,
With the trigger of my overpowered gun,
Powered by confidence,
and the desire to have a good time,
At the expanse of another.
One by one they go, into the slaughtering machine
Of the burning bullet, the burning word,
One by one they fulfil the never-ending passion
For entertainment, for a good laugh, for condenscending,
And it's all good,
Because they're just "Stormtroopers",
Henchmen of the dark, behind the dark,
And their cries can't be heard by the noise of the flamethrower,
So it is all good and well,
To install in their brain,
A penetrating bullet of hell.
They come in many forms:
Scouts, Snows, Ranges, Shadows and Darks,
But why should I care,
When their anguish entertains all the same?
Waging war is not what one should do,
But if it makes one happy, makes one feel like they expressed themselves,
Then who are we to judge the death toll of many,
Especially of those.. above the chair?
Hermits, loners? To hell with them,
For they are weak, "pussies", "snowflakes", sensitives,
Who refuse to deal with reality
-- The reality led by the peace-slaughtering machines,
The reality we all create,
And laugh with satisfaction,
Of a day that's been "well done",
By the power of pressing certain buttons,
Those that pull the trigger,
And aim exactly, aim purposefully,
As we rise with apathy,
And they fall,
In the inflicted mental wounds,
of their misery.
The only shield from all of this?
Combine disconnection with connection,
Or disconnect completely,
If you don't have anything else to say to anyone
You don't know,
Because they sure do,
And always will,
In the name of hedonism.