who are these people, they look familiar.
out there, separated by a comma splice.
you know the ones, year in and year out
we see their faces, we hear their voices
yet outside our dreams they walk mundane.
the side effects of being born can be fatal
the results of a decision made, not our own.
how futile it feels to live with decisions made
by others who think they know what’s best.
maybe that is why it can be so hard for us
to decide. for the risk it feels too great!
oh, who is ‘we’ here, we sing. it does not matter.
can’t you see what it means to be well adjusted.
on the radio the self-made prison leader says
how a society treats its prisoners is a reflection
of the health of the society, a diagnosis grim.
maybe it’s time to go down in our root cellars
dust off the grimy bottles and jars, sealed with wax
full as they are with every emotion we never feel
untwist the lids, breathe in anger, fear, and love
when we realize all at once we have been so wrong,
these truths have yet to wash the world with light.