Not Really

Poem By Bradley Dupuis

about this election:
i've stopped thinking about it
i like to believe it never happened

i'm in acute denial

so acute, that i've narrowed my vision
to such a fine point
that i can no longer
see past the boundaries
or think outside the box
sullied with tampered ballots
where lie my pigeon-holed dreams

i could scream,
but to what end?
my blue face will not make them listen
make them accept
the dire consequence
of their choices
they will not change their minds
for me
and i have to accept that
or i'm bound to go crazy
bound to lose it all
bound to the tracks with hemp rope
and screaming and
then what good would i be?
dead or straight-jacketed...

i'm already well read on lies
and well versed in complacence
sorry, I don't have time
to stand up and fight
i have to go to work
and the boss' sight is not broad enough
to see that my day off
serves the greater good
my social conscience does not increase
our profit margin
nor does it really decrease the marginalization
of my working class brothers...

not really.

without action my conscience
is no better than my sub-concious
useless to the rest of the world
unless it's brought to the fore-front
by years of counseling I cannot afford
and it's not covered by my health plan

I sometimes feel institutionalised
how i day dream and rationalise
my way through each new day
like the behavioral modification centers
we call suburbs
where our cells have kitchens
and we commute to group therapy
on the dis-information super-highway
and arts & crafts requires a reservation
and it takes a trial of will
to break free from our prozac vacations
our soma holidays
but who wants reality anyway
teeming with inhibitions and insecurities
cured by Oprah and Dr. Phil
and we all know he ain't a real doctor
but we listen to him anyway
and we pay the price

if you can convince a man to buy what you're selling
you can convince him to do anything
and he will do anything
to be able to keep on buying
what your selling
and I bought it
or at least it was sold to me
paid for by a direct deposit from my
mental bank account

but it wasn't my fault
i had no say
i was permanently temporarily insane
or, had I forgotten how to live?
it had been so long
I may have just given up, or given in
or just given so much of myself
that I find I'm incomplete
and ordering new pieces of me
to fill the void

but they never do...not really.

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