This Stage We Call Our Nation Poem by Imo Peter

This stage we call our nation, poorly lit,
A tired soap opera, endlessly writ.
Governance, a melodrama played in jest,
Broadcasting amplified joy, no true rest.

We sit within a hall of mirrored lies,
Where hollow leaders feign a grand sunrise.
Democracy's sweet fruit, a painted fake,
A 'demo-crazy' bargain we can't break.

The podium echoes with their empty cheer,
A chorus of yes-men, holding nothing dear,
They hand out honors for the doer's shame,
While hiking costs fuels their greedy game

The renew hope, a fragile, worn-out thread,
'Your rising bills will bring the wealth ahead! '
But deeper grows the ache of hungry plight,
Our stolen earnings vanish in the night.

This land that birthed us now feels cold and stark,
A perfect theory, leaving its bitter mark
on audience captive, by hunger's cruel design,
Applauding failures, a twisted paradigm.

Our sanity, like wages, bought and sold,
Our very souls to this harsh bargain told.
We toiled and waited, burdens on our backs,
Caught in the snare of their deceptive tracks.

Our nation's progress, a well-crafted lie,
Another medal for the stagnant sky.
Still, they command our faith, these puppeteers,
Their concocted stories silencing our fears...
Or so they think, these lauded, false messiahs