Everywhere you go the same mass
of particles assaults you.
Same mass, different names,
different ways of seeing.
I know only a single way of being.
It’s mine, and it probably isn’t yours.
It’s boring to think about, isn’t it?
Almost as boring as a power drill.
I heard once that where there’s a will,
there’s a way, but who has a say
in the way that they take?
I also heard once that we have
to find our way, and finding
isn’t the same as willing.
There were people milling
about the public fountain when I arrived.
They were disinterested and stamped
with smiles, but inauthentic ones
that hurt the eyes to behold.
It was cold, and there were clouds
that looked like handguns, hashtags,
and their varied associations.
A nation had been kicked in the shins.
Coming to grips with this truth
resulted in a metaphysical toothache.
I’d reached a breaking point,
joints and all, and knowing a fall
was inevitable, I shrunk back
from my duties which until then
I had never observed.
The world swerved to meet me,
and it met me in a 100mph
head on collision.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 