Move! Let me out—I need me out of my head
With ricocheting thoughts threatening to shred
My identity. I dodge them; they tear through
My hundred dollar shirt—the obscenity.
Who decided upon these formal duds?
My body aches for the scent of mud, to feel
It caked on my hands would be pure ecstasy,
But it could be too cold? See—Why am I
Conditioned to think this way? To smile and nod
When inwardly I’m screaming. Do you think my
Childhood hands noticed the temperature? No!
It was my mother’s voice that called me away.
And we think this is better? This disconnect—
Through the wires that were spread by—who?
Who knows how long ago? But we’re together,
We say—United, we stand. But really,
Who are we anymore? I’m friends with a woman
That I’ve never met before. Professional, social,
Polite, tolerant—we’ve become, until one day,
We’re not–our televisions flash with the same dumb
Violent shows we’ve seen over and over. But
We’re so numb…because we don’t know Callie Morris
So why should we care? Who played her anyway?
Wasn’t it that Poppy Montgomery girl over there?
No, that’s right. She was on Next Top Model
Or some other reality hack that serves to kill
Time—take it away from our sons and daughters,
Mothers and fathers, and sit in your Lazy Boy. Lay down!
What are you? Lazy, boy? Don’t you know you
Have to work for a living and donate all the time
That you can, working for the man, until it’s all you
Do, and your time isn’t even yours anymore
And all you’ve got to show for it is a pile of bills,
A vacation, planned and paid for, but never
Taken. Society, you’re making a fool out of me—but there’s
No escaping, just popping pills and taking our prescriptions
That treat the symptoms of this disease, but don’t
Cut it off at the root—so we can’t give it the boot—
It takes over, and the guns start firing again, hurling
Hurtful words at our neighbors and friends.
And what joy do we have then? What can we turn
To? Our YouTube videos, popcorn, a good screw?
But none of these things can help us connect,
Facebook, Pinterest, Instagram—none of that.
Religion is nearly forgotten—they think Jesus is
Still on the cross, but really he’s just waitin’ for us
To get over our loss. We shouldn’t have hoped, shouldn’t
Have trusted so much to begin with—then we wouldn’t
Have so much we could sin with—we put our faith in
Unreliable things, and our concrete prison is going up
In smoke rings. But still we won’t give up, no we can’t
Give in—we scramble around rebuilding from within.
Charred rock stacked on crumbling wood—we stand
Back and smile at the unlikelihood, but it holds, enough
For us to huddle underneath—but these false hopes
Just crumble—and crush us in our sleep.
Picture taken from: Bestflag.blogspot.com
Kayla I. Shown-Dean is the author of Muted and an avid reader, blogger, and poet. To read more of her work, visit her website at http://www.kideanaround.com or email her at email@example.com.
I am so impressed with your writing talent:)