Caves Cockroaches and Che

Caves Cockroaches and Che

Death is a profound thought process.
You’re not breathing anymore — veins bursting like landmines.
People cry for you, the ones who never cared.
Yet there you lie, peace in your heart,
a smile on your face,
freed from the burden of this mortal, material world
that worships gain but forgets to feel.

We sell each other in the marriage system,
a barter deal straight from an economics textbook.
Life? Just a long-lasting inflation.

You feel like an indentured laborer,
carrying bricks on your back and your heart —
yet smear on a fake laugh like makeup.
Telling the world, “I’m alright,”
while you’re chapped and hollow inside.

A haunted mansion of flesh and bone,
your tears echo in silence.
You deliver monologues to indifferent walls,
getting pierced by invisible bullets —
but no blood, no death, just
the quiet burial inside your chest.

You live like a suicide bomber on pause,
counting down to detonation —
alienated, unloved, unseen.

You drink molotov cocktails like Che Guevara,
survive nuclear fallout like cockroaches.
You ask yourself:
"Am I finally free from Plato’s cave?
Or still admiring shadows, like Narcissus,
destined to die gazing at myself?"

Am I the master of my cage?
Or a prisoner of free will’s mirage?