Processed, wrapped and packaged,
Injected with cornstarch and drained of all things real,
My words taste better when they’re organic
Over thought, preplanned and stale meanings
My words are products of endorsement deals, steroid injections and pressures introduced by the media
Of course I can’t completely rely on my own garden
Some words rot, taste bad, and have weak roots
I try to make room for my garden to grow
But cooperate America has infiltrated
The soil smells of Lysol,
The sun is blocked by skyscrapers,
Am I planting the right seeds?
The little water I have goes to swimming pools
And watering fake laws, adorned with lawn gnomes
My words, like me, are overwhelmed with today
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment