Poem: May 2011
They have not a name, nor face to their presence
They are underplayed pronouns in a tedious tale-he, she, it, they
They are nothing more than words on an otherwise empty page, movement on an otherwise still sidewalk
They serve only the barest function.
They mull about, hopeless, & meaningless in their monotonous existences.
They have no will or drive to seek a greater purpose.
They are satisfied with their dull never-changing scenery.
They love the constant and long only for comfort.
They see no reason to fix what isn’t yet broken; to resuscitate what hasn’t yet suffocated.
They breathe air poisoned by their own self destruction.
They labor most intensely in pursuit of designing that which will lessen their already minimal effort.
They ache for simple, undisturbed suburban paradise void of any true concerns.
They sacrifice their souls for the promise of fame, riches and instant gratification.
They are numb to reality, to the depravity beyond their crumbling utopia.
They are Americans and proud to be labeled as such.