get real

We are art.

We mold our skin to fit some standard

we either oppose or support,

but we are still fitting somewhere,

in the essence of not fitting in we find these floods

of anarchist,

who claim they are each different

get real.

You’re only part of another ploy.


I don’t want art.

I want things that yell and scream 

and fight for what we can not speak of,

but dream of, every night.

I don’t want to be emotionally inspired,

I want to be physically moved

swept of my feet in a rage

because words can only amount to symbols on a page

and we all can scream at the top of our lungs

through angry letters and broken phrases,

but amount to nothing.


Where does it end?

This marching of masks,

all of us decked out in the ideas

that we can improve upon ourselves

to the point where nature is just a twisted vision.

The trees that fall only make sounds when we want them to.

It’s suffocation, imprisonment,

packaged as freedom,

pregnant with conspiracy theories

so swollen with options

we lie like stone statues,

decaying in our own indecisions

because every step taken

is going somewhere,

and maybe it’s not the right direction.

We can cry and whine all we please

but our noise drowns out 

the reason for our plea.

Tears only serve as gate ways to say

something is broken.

And rather than treat the leak

we choose cover-up and repression,

to say what you feel is only acceptable

if that feeling goes away after a while.


But what about the old lover you never forgot?

What if you can still remember their lips

and how they said your name

like it was the only sequence of syllables that existed in the world.

What about the lost souls?  

The ghosts of Christmas’s pasts,

wandering the streets waiting for someone to listen.


Because, what if emotions aren’t irrational?

What if feelings are not bent on some profound chemical brain imbalance

but rather the fact and we are trying so hard to be

we forget how to breathe.

We are trying so hard to make,

we become made,

we become fake.

Stuffed into our skin like ill-fitting suits,

no one ever asked us our opinion.


From day one, we are taught to accept things.

No one showed us our bodies in a shop and asked 

would you mind being ugly your entire life?

And then we spit on people who perform plastic surgery

for this image of “perfect” we are forced to chase.

It begins by sewing shut our lips.

No one asked us if we wanted to live.


We are just stuck,

speaking a language built on the principals

that if you are sad,

no one will understand.

You’re that tree that fell in the forest

and nobody heard.

We were too busy digging up the world.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed