I have never met a more complacent lot,
Than those of my compatriots;
Never have citizens been more obedient,
Than those of my immediates.
Forget spilled tea, today it's
Watered down coffee.
Biscuits cut with sawdust
Out from smaller & smaller molds,
Eating whatever fed us.
Cause we all know hunger

Believing any narrative pushed so long as it's prevailing;
The populace obsessed with popularity.

It's a headache & a headrush in the states,
Cool if you make the breaks
But that's like hitting the ******* lottery.
You gotta ask, what gives?
What does it take
To get a fair chance to stake a claim
In a country full of people who don't give a ****?
What sense does it even make
To try,
When no one in charge does?

For my own lot, & life -
Whether tis here or afar

what about the poems that try to encapsulate the happy feelings?
the immediates, the too instantaneous to write languidly?

there are emotions that strike you like lightning
***** you like a pin
tickle you like a feather

the emotions that slap you across the face and ignite as quickly as a match, but then are extinguished just as fast. and i guess writing about the small stream of quickly cooling smoke isn't enough.

everyone writes about the depths and the caverns of sadness and sorrow, guilt and regret.
perhaps it's easier to notice the details of an emotion that rips through you much slower.

but the sharpness and the searing of giddiness, surprise, and shock flash through you in a blinding instance, white-hot and cauterizing.
we should write about those more, i think.