A lit plastic, glass fronted box dictates our culture,
our moods decided for us as we fumble with volume controls and cornflake bowls,
and awaken susceptible and willing to be given emotion.
Why create our own?
Tut tutting and murmurs of distaste at the nation,
a common sign of news taken on board,
used by the masses as a way of saying “not another day of this”
… and still we read the paper.
Intrigued by declarations of death and disaster,
intrigued by the notion of people worse off…
does it pleasure you to be of a higher health?
does it please you to know you have greater wealth?
Or is it simply a twisted comparison,
to be like those printed,
to be like those played,
to “know what that feels like”, and “completely understand where they’re coming from”..
…I don’t get it, I don’t see…
Where are your own emotions? Where are your own thoughts?
Why must just woeful stories relate…
it seems we are not human unless we wear a scar and a shadow, a back turned on the world, a face of scorn… all the while our frown lines deepen… thoughts darken… shoulders dropped and feet dragging…
we are ugly… but we have not lost our potential… yet..
… Why can’t we relate unless we have something to complain about or some horrible story to tell…
Why do we find goodness so horribley crass and boring!? Come on people… no wonder the developed world is so messed up!