On this America

On this day in America, I am jobless.
On this day in America, millions are jobless.
They are tired, hungry and poor.
On this day in America, millions are loveless.
They have cold blue eyes and can’t realize
the consumption they create will ruin the rest of us.
On this day in America, cold blue screens light up faces.
The faces receive messages and the subconscious will never understand
why it believes nothing is ever enough.
On this day in America, thin red lips tell big fat lies
about perfect thighs and wider eyes and
manufactured beauty that cannot be recreated.
On this day in America, she is filling herself with plastic
and she is dead inside.
On this day in America, he is suppressing himself as if it is his duty
and he will go on this way for years.
They will put themselves in the boxes on their shelves from Ikea and their hopes will collect dust. Inside they will rust.
They will be doing what they are told.

On this day in America, I am tired of the broken, I am tired of the huddled masses, I am tired of lies stacked like a buffet in front of us all. I am tired of the sickness. I am tired of waiting in line under fluorescent lights for freedoms owed and I’m tired of having them stripped away like paper confetti, dangling and drifting in the air above our heads.

On this day in America, we’re expected to celebrate independence. We’re supposed to let the patriotic sycophants roam the streets among the jobless, among the girls and boys, among all the many who have no love in their hearts. We are to celebrate our independence and the roars will drown out the small whisper which is carried on the wind: WE ARE DEPENDENT.

On this day in America, the bastards will win again.

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