It's a familiar dream to watch each other grind to down to dust. Far more bitter than sweet to watch humanity's enemies choke on their own jealousy. "It's impossible to fix this nightmare we've been given," that's what you told me while you cried into my chest in the middle of the night, shaking and scared. Do you rember when we realized we are all part of a machine? A machine run on capitalism, hatred, blood and pure American ethanol. We are born forced into this machine of revenge that bombs the Middle East and spills Crimson out of lovely skin all in the name of Liberty. We're voodoo dolls poked, punched, and sliced until we fit back into a place we seem best fit. A lover of mine always spoke of how he hated that we are blinded by the media and cower behind the shame in our own heads. Taught to unlove ourselves the minute we open our eyes and suck air into small, fragile lungs.
They say our souls are filthy and our minds are weak, but these men in black suits with white collars hold the key to redemption and purity. We are all brothers and sisters taught to spit at each other until we feel useless. I rember how you would spend hours staring at your own skin and all the bones poking out, trying to learn how to love all of them. But the second someone kisses their own scars they are seen as if they have created a throne of self pity and false pride.
"This world is a nightmare we have been given" Your not wrong. Perhaps in another universe we all love and create, free to kiss strangers and sleep soundly at night.
We don't fit In this machine, we are poets trying to spark a rebellion and heal our own wounds. We don't fit, maybe there's an error In our codes.
