Saturday, December 26, 2015

Like a Turkey at Thanksgiving: A Poem for Lost America

It touches your skin
Never hits your soul
But you're desperate for more
Cynics are your friends now
What you once cared for betrayed you somehow
And so you stuff stuff stuff to numb yourself
But it's just your skin
And you feel everything but only at the surface
Your soul, a seldom trodden wonderland, is aching nonetheless
It's asking you, with weary words, to pause and make space for it
So you stop hurting yourself and other people
But stuff stuff stuff: it's easier and it's accessible and it's here and now
Stuff stuff stuff hits the skin of you and the ones you love
And you haven't seen Love for a decade or so
But who could tell the difference?

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