Waiting For The Punchline
Wrecked, but still,
The quiet eminence of distrust buries itself deep inside of each one of us,
Whispering hatred in foreign tongue,
Until it becomes loud enough,
Not for us to hear,
No,
But for us to forget,
To assume that the voices were always there,
And of course I’m not suggesting,
That perhaps there is something wrong with our government,
Because horrible masked men have always been in charge,
Right?,
And I’m no Anne Frank,
But Hell,
I think I’m alive,
And I still remember that ten year old me knew it was wrong to be a Nazi,
Or a communist,
Or a confederate,
But who am I kidding?,
Ten year old me was so foolishly naive,
Not to understand that perhaps,
These stories weren’t a fictional dystopia from a land far far away,
But a poison painted over the stakes that hold white men up upon the cross,
A secret society of, “Sic Semper Tyrannis!”
And each stripe and star isn’t a symbol of freedom,
Because freedom is a sick, twisted joke,
And I’ve grown tired of waiting for the punchline,
But perhaps we are the comedy,
Bred into a world that wears racism, sexism, and murder like precious jewels,
And I guess, what I’m trying to say,
Is I’m tired,
And people are dying,
Trying to survive,
Dying to try,
Trying to die,
But foolish, prideful,
Masked men need to feel alive,
And perhaps the only way,
Is to take a life,
And now I must ask,
When will it be mine?
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