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
who claim they are each different
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.