How broken has my free thought become.
Sometimes my false perceptions (gifted from the internet)
Are more twisted than sprained ankles.
Leg casts and broadcasts.
My head needs crutches, sometimes.
I double and triple A check myself,
But the Truth is hard to uncover.
The Truth is as easily distorted as emptied lemons,
Looking crushed from dirty fingers.
Curl up like lying tongues.
Their lips pucker when they are met with facts
That don’t offer wiggle room.
So they turn to twitter-
Use the virtual world as a buffer.
The day 45 was elected,
I collected suicide hotlines in my palms.
They tear through my hands like thumbtacks.
We yell of unrest
Of fake news,
Yet they just put a pin in it.
Thumbtack my freethought.
My mom warms me, to be careful of what I put on the internet,
Because it stays there forever.
How do we keep forgetting and forgiving this buffer?
Outrage is easily forgotten,
We toss out rotten lemons
Without targeting rotten trees,
How do we keep letting agressions
Spark outrage and then die out as easily
as those embers were made.
I still know a couple suicide hotlines by heart.
I still try and turn lemons into lemonade.
We will not sit quietly,
And be forced into drinking
By Olympia Miccio