new types

Life is not when you balance snare drums on your eyelids like young men think of it. Rather, a new side of your heart to hold open your sickened-puppy experiences (or types of that nature), where we shudder to think about rascists or misogynists fueling our mouths with dollars, turning the car on so we can go, allowing us out of our boundaries but within theirs, just to get from point A to point B. These are the policitians we see on TV and our bosses at work, grinding gears around your ankles and teaching you how Jesus thought. Feeling pride in this system is just a way to get you to eat your meatloaf. Yet you're sitting under your desk eating rat poison, blueprints (documents) strewn out across your office. Come stains on the floor, ceiling tiles falling out and cracking like the hair on your head. Engineered and destroyed, you are driven in shackles as a tool for them and their unnatural rhythms. Their gasoline products, meant for you to consume, keep every square on the grid the same shade of light blue, yet in reality, every point on the graph is glaring red--red like the blood of everyone you know. Down the mountain, through the hole, you end up in hell. They require a credit of health class for all high school graduates, for the same reason that they put spraypaint and skateboards on shirts at the mall. But the only mind-altering substances come when they try, try harder than you, to know you better than you know yourself. Because you believe in the person they've made you. I believe in everyone. It's just that everyone's the same.