Poem -

Friend Number Foe

Truth Ain't Even True No Mo...

Friend Number Foe

Do I have the right to change my mind?

Will it not be seen as a lie?

No one listens.
Those sheep have lupine eyes.

If I discover new facts and find in my studies that I've been grossly misinformed,...

Is it a grave mistake?

At what hour is far, considered too late?

Can't even the worst of  reputations be baptized and reborn?

Since when has a prodigal been suffered to endure a homecoming of scorn?

Who even has the energy after the hogs have had their fill of precious pearls and rock bottom is born.

​​​​​Do I have any right at all to deduce and state that this or that, for me, is true?

When the constants are changed and unknowns are rearranged and the source codes are all blackened by the blues.

Shouldn't I have the right to alter my views?

And, for that matter,... Why should I be forced to do so by you?

Won't some see my on-trend closed-loop revelations as feminine frailty or indecision?

Proclaiming that my fight for balance is little more than chronic hippocampal division.

Should I just tuck away my trauma and wait here hurting until the world isn't quite so busy?

I'll just drink more water, exercise and smile, and focus on my goals of peace and positivity...

...and seeing as how you're my brand new saviour, and all I make are the wrong decisions...

I'll take a well drawn map of your jackboot-truth as my life enhancing and everlasting prescription.

I'll buy a compass, some rope and a hunting knife, for my hampster wheel nights embracing bright Polaris in kinship.

I'm aware that it's only a satellite alright but I may as well get used to pretending.

I'll change all of my Me until it's so much like You that magic mirrors couldn't tell the damn difference...

As if you're listening...?

​It's the lime stone arcade of these balm-less solutions that produce specious excretions calling for extended-stay ablutions.

Lye soap pressed from pretty much all of wise Sophia's ashes. Cooling water leached by moonlight watching rising smoke through a bond of fire flashings.

Can I scrub away the sent of age-after-war-torn-age of moral and civil radioactive decay?

Where, whatever can't be washed and rinsed clean by the solvents may well have to fester and stay?

Will these new clearer claims of my disdain for independent thoughts transform my mad notions any closer to a diagnosis of, A.O.K?

Should I bow to cast system color reductions and terror forever or shall I just prostrate myself for the day?

I'll pass on that option to alter my views... 

I'm guessing that you get your pay either way, reach the quota, make the day and probably couldn't care less what I choose...

*stares out of a hand drawn window beyond the fourth wall of external bondage and nepotistic control systems as our omnipresent eye zooms in on the overpriced desk, on a thread bear rug whose sparse threads find themselves wrapped needlessly round the cheap plastic wheels of a faux leather chair. Sitting in that chair is The Honorable PhD of Tri-Costal-Socio-Economic- Statistical-Aggregation of all the bodies still standing and quietly demanding an update concerning all gained rights or  per chance, reduced liabilities, and I'm kind of impressed that she was listening... Kind of...*

​​​​Why so dark and gloomy my dear, surely our little prank didn't mark your mind?...

It's only an experience, no long term designs there's no need to go exposing the electrodes wires.

We all have our rolls and our seals on the scrolls and we've all been assigned by the times...

Highlight study papers and
push pills
To all the venture funders and their crapshoot billions...

And besides,...
you're one of few that hasn't threatened suicide, cried, or attempted to destroy the new building.

*She gives me a "healthy" treat and rushes me through the door, nearly knocking down her next client who totally looks like the kind of kid I can plot the destruction of this new building with...*

I'm sorry my dear... that's our time. Another client, these  epidemics, it's a drain and a grind....

*So I'll be back to my mark,...don't break the fourth wall, too drained to place blame as I sink down in practiced fall, no stunt doubles, scale pay, and on call*

I'll hop back in my box
Run down your long-legged clock until my constants become changed by strange tides....

​​​​​Admitting no Contradiction.

There's none here left to listen

To these rams and sheep with poor vision

Pulling wool over the sights of crossed hairs in the system

Just glassin'...

.... through lupine eyes.


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