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Consume Stop. Listen. Looking inside yourself, A portrayal, Betrayal of the mind And senses Senseless, Frivolity we are too disconnected, Corrected it may mean The epitome Of the nothingness we consume Willingly, Let us be forgetful of the task at hand, For a second opportunity To display our pride in Sin and Agony. Repented, Represented and gift-wrapped, As if this is the new American Dream. Our likes are living lies of their own accord, Robotic representations, They are full of recantations. Harshness Squeezed between the gravel, the road, and the tire. We live our lives connected, To wires which are tapped, sprung, and miss-communicated. All for the opportunity of Juxtaposition. Find an Alibi, Blame consumerism, And then go Find yourself.
Introspection Introspection: I take my pill in the form of consistent sarcasm, It burns all the way down to the acid pools of my stomach. My mornings are just cause to question society, Explain the wrongdoings of the world, In exchange for a free cup of coffee and a pat on the back. I do not pretend to believe in love, Too much faith has been put to the test of hatred. Contradiction is the world’s great strong point. In light of current events, All the world needs is a media pass and a curiosity, Barely satisfied by the answers we’re expected to have, Printed in the backs of tissue we did not create, Donate, Understand it. We can’t, our blood has been shed too far. Looking underneath the skin has become a pastime, The American Dream? We don’t remember half of what we think, What has been forgotten in our monotony? Desperation is slowly filling our pens, Becoming the ink we are determined to spill, In our rush to imprint ourselves upon the world, In an individualistic way which has been tried a thousand times before. I do not pretend to believe in your religion. The written law was made to be broken, In this we are in agreeance. But I read books as if they were law, And Burning books is illegal. Round and round and round and round. What a massacre to watch the written word thrust into hellish demons. I take my pill in the palm of my hand, And I can pretend to throw it into the ocean, As if trivial matters and humanity are floating on the surface, Waiting for me to go ahead, And cast it in. But letting go would mean forgetting this great dream I once had and can barely remember still, even though I’m holding on anyway. Nothing makes something sometimes, Even in the face of great monotony, And a greater desperation. Hand me my pen, dear world. For I am ready to steady my voice.
Script
We have this place, It’s not so imaginary, Imagery, Wooden cross strung tight to a crystalline rosary. We are delicate, tiny flowers dropped into ponds, It is not the strength that keeps the petals afloat Lightweight, Ragged torn edges, Upturned in tears that grew naturally, But were they unprovoked? Bed sheets that line the floors of cement-block caverns, Jails and prisons in a world where everything can be accessed, By a sticker and a media pass. Journalism is not more or less art, Than this or any other piece. Face value is found in star-studs and irony. We don’t look deeper, Because our mirrors don’t reflect the depths that have shriveled away, And stored themselves into the chambers of our hearts, We’ve allowed ourselves to forget. We can only hide, Half-formed and morphed behind the shadows we’ve now created, Our protectors, Our saviors, Who else would peek out behind the curtain? And call our name to a crowd which doesn’t understand the syllables? Those strands of consonants and vowels formed To make the words of a man or woman, Desperate but lost In the only abyss they have given themselves the power to control. We lose our power in ourselves, Keeping the enemy at bay, And hiding beneath reflective personalities and too-wise wisdom, We’ve turned the enemy into a familiar face that cannot be removed by mild soap and steaming water. We lose ourselves, We lose each other… We lose our link to humanity, Tearing the thread which held on, A rusting chain in a taut fence that is locked on all sides, Keeping nothing out and nothing in, But the lost cause of hope and connection, Which has faded and grayed under the false promises of tomorrow’s sunrise.
Mosquito There’s a
mosquito bite on my jaw line.
Balance
By now,
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