Representative of people

Change is in us and always has been.
A true mature individual has many friends, strong families, but needs no one.
Choice. It is what frightens us most out of life. Forces us to believe
choices for us need limitations, restricted without hesitation, immediately,
legally bound. The representative people charged with enacting change
are incapable of making decisions. They’re crippled. One of many concessions
politicians are asked to sacrifice upon election. Suppress your personality,
your personal issues, marketable regrets, your misplaced anxieties. Yourself.
We, the authentic people, can own those aspects in ourselves. But our mirror,
our reflection, our hoisted, well-dressed representation, must be better than we are. Banish weakness within your majority selected self. Do not act with reason, or logic.
The insurance is in reaction. Wait for oil to spill then drill the rhetoric of development, change, growth, ground starts shaking and buildings fall down,
call just after to mend the source of disaster.
Trace the vine to roots too late. Be sure to hesitate.
It is the safest way to restrict your own choices, limit options.
And who can argue with the last viable solution.
With the world sinking beneath garbage,
let’s finally discuss pollution.
This next part will be frightening, and read like revolt. It is not.
All we must do in order to grow, change, progress, is already in us.
Shatter the mirror, break the desperate stare at a better representation
of us than we are ourselves. It is only superficially better.
It does not matter the marks we scratch against the glass.

When we change ourselves in order to alter our reflection,
no protest is necessary to influence our representation.

Butterflies aren’t born butterflies

Being young feels like hunger.
People look at you like an invasive pest.
Until about twenty five.

When you protrude from that self absorbed,
emotionally dense cocoon, and for once,
people can stand the look of you.

Some of them may even smile,
spending entire lives in denial,
they ever put pesticide on butterflies.

More like vengeance

The spring sun comes with vengeance, doesn’t it?
Full of memory, and contemptuous resentment.
As if to communicate the fiery sentiment,
how dare you turn the side of that oily adolescent face to me?
Where did you all find the strength to roll over the other mountainous cheek?
Like leaves only came to conceal shame and cower in shade.
Like flowers are gestures, jokes and tricks, vying to be the one
to show the sun a bauble, trinket, or color it did not know of before.
As if the whole sparking intention of nature was to express,
well, now there is more.

Yes, we turned away from you God, you flaming liquid blob,
you roiling chariot of fake yellow gold, but yet, turned back,
away from winter’s star spoiled black and cold mist mornings.

A choir of erratic voices, a billion years of genetically recorded choices,
all loud and delighted to be your wriggling little satellite,
make you proud being burned by light who escaped, temporarily,
into chilling darkness and felt a pale, frail,
sort of lonely happiness in your absence.

But when that full sun returns to shine against the living,
slapped unprepared while the trees are still bare,
it feels more like vengeance, than Spring, doesn’t it?