Here at Brain Damage, we always welcome contributions from our visitors, and indeed over the years have shared everything from reviews of concerts, albums and books, through to fan artwork, and tattoos.

Poetry though is somewhat under-represented on the site, so we were really pleased with the contribution below. As the author - Amy Balog - explains, the messages and feelings from Roger's current tour, along with his work over the years, have really struck a chord with her...over to Amy:

I have recently seen Roger Waters's Us + Them show twice, in Las Vegas and in Los Angeles. These wonderful concerts, combined with Roger's brilliant new album, have inspired me to write a poem, titled Since 1979, which I'd like to share with you. I'm a writer, and Roger's words have influenced me from an early age at many different levels, so I intended this poem to be a homage to his time with Pink Floyd, as well as his solo work. It also contains references to Orwell and Huxley, both of whom he admires.

Here's the poem:

Since 1979 - Amy Balog

Since 1979
More walls have been put up than torn down,
And the construction never seems to stop.

The walls are more and more sophisticated;
They’re being covered with cameras and screens,
And these screens are our windows to outside spheres.

We see what we’re shown; it’s all our lives will ever be worth.
Even the Epsilons are valued: they have their own channels.
We don’t always have bread but we always have circus.

For centuries, we have been fighting our battles
Against different kinds of animals calling themselves leaders,
But some teachings live longer than their fathers.

With knives in our backs and turmoil growing in and around us,
Can both we and all our fragile truths survive?
Or are we being defeated by our ideas of with and without?

We shout at the dark walls of fear separating us
From the part of the world that disagrees with us,
And if we don’t hear our own echoes, round and round we run.

The walls are getting higher so we feel safe
From those who have something unusual to say.
We lock the door on ourselves and throw the key away.

If we don’t have a dictator, we still need someone
To make it all seem black and white, and up and down,
So we don’t need to think to tell wrong from right.

He can be writing on a blackboard or barking from a stage,
Hanging from a cross or preaching from a page,
Blurred by strong lights or just born with a pretty face.

We’re blinded by the lustrous and fake halos
Projected by the fear of those who have lost their hopes,
And the crazy diamonds are not shining anymore.

Some would give their lives just to climb the wall,
And take a look at the few who rule over us all,
To find that it’s really them pissing on us when the rain falls.

We create our leaders like we’ve created our gods,
And to save our creations we constantly fight,
Until our gods become leaders and the leaders become gods.

And the pigs become humans and the humans become pigs,
Until it’s impossible to tell who is who and which is which,
And, in the end, equality becomes a privilege.

Masses are drowning in the semen of their gods,
Others choose to swallow only to survive,
Yet others learn to swim and forget where they are.

We pray to deaf gods who just stare at the madness,
Too disgusted to even dip a finger in their own mess.
And we wonder why the last refugee hasn’t been born yet.

But we, humans, are sharing this dirty pool, after all.
We’re all struggling together while the echoes fill up our souls.
These echoes are déjà vus and orders from up above.

And all we can do is rave at the wall from the mud below,
The heart of the Sun beating in us as we’re eaten by the shadow,
Until the numbing eclipse comes and we stand in line to follow.

They can see us from above and there’s nowhere we can hide;
Like open books with torn pages, we’re lying in front of their eyes,
They don’t let us step on the grass and they can see inside our minds.

And if one of us succeeds at climbing to the top of the wall,
When they take their first glance at those down below,
The dark side winks at them; in the dirt they no longer belong.

And the leaders change but the screens don’t go anywhere.
The programmes might change, too, but our lives are no different.
The screens tell us what to dream and make us repeat: us and them.

Our thanks to Amy for this submission. More info here: AmyBalog.net and at twitter.com/amybalogauthor