Fuck the fascists rising up from society's underbelly, we were meant for making poetry, not for choosing which faulty engine to put inside a war machine.
I’ve been told I should rejoice, as if the day I was born wasn’t the same day I lost my voice. Like this engine is well-oiled, like our existence isn’t already soiled by thinking we need to be pillars of strength and might. Gotta be tough, because one day you’ll realize you’re never gonna be enough.
Do what you can to embrace pleasure, retrain your brain to circumvent pain. Feed the hungry ghosts, it doesn’t matter if you have more than most. Here, the canines are taught to feast on their own, to go it alone. Rewards dispensed for the most merciless and cruel. But I’ll never get used to the notion that some were born to suffer, while others were born to rule.
Sometimes existential despair washes over me, so try to conceptualize the world differently. At any given time, catch me doing revisions, as if it were up to me to make the decisions. My inner world turns and burns with what could and ought to be. A new collective destiny. Call the gentle people home to me. I’d cradle them like newborn babes chosen and wanted by their mothers. We’d co-exist and be good to one another.
We’d hold space for men to weep without restraint or shame. We’d ensure that women owned their womb-spaces and the bodies that they claim. Hierarchies and social classes wouldn’t exist. No one on this Earth would be overlooked and we’d channel our inner altruists. The entire planet would be regarded as holy land, and in the face of differences between us, we’d celebrate each one and do our best to understand.
In this imagined place of warmth, poets and healers would replace the politicians and dealers. We’d finally recognize that it takes more than being strong to survive. We’d live our days with compassion and connection, and have what we need to thrive.
Take me away to the place where only the soft survive. Take me away…
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