I can only be an activist in words
because my heart refuses to part
with the beauty of art.
I no longer have the will
to struggle in a field
already full of fallen friends.
I do not think we can mend
the walls that crumble and bend
under the unbridled influence of
greedy and already wealthy men.
I do not think anyone cares to hear
how what I feared is already here
and now I am certain we will find
we can only slow this dangerous decline
other ages we’re able to cycle from
dark to enlightenment then back in
and around again.
However, with the damage to our environment
I am afraid this dark age will be permanent.
My brothers have turned my will to fight
into an ill-suited straight jacket
that I rage against but still put on each night.
What I am saying is we are not alright.
We are men, women, and children
already marked for death
because we condemned ourselves
to outdated projections
and ancient prophecies,
instead of studying what it means to be human.
I wonder if you realized you can’t beat the patriarchy
or topple the autocratic institutions
when they are built on the foundation of
the church you go to and the god who owns you
and even though this is supposed to
be a poem that wrote to tell you the truth
I know you won’t listen or believe me.
Thus, I leave thee to thy pointless struggle
so that I can play the fiddle in the middle of
this world that I love
the one you keep on ******* up.