The shared parts of information.

There’s the way I perceive
like I need to retrieve
myself unto myself
in relation
to the rotations
that have always been there
but neglected to share,
or become overly aware
of their surroundings.
All those final accomplishments
and communal refreshments
will lose their appeal
in their attempt to steal back
those praises
and “raise it”s
and places
they remember too well.
You see,
we’re all the same person,
but samples are being investigated
by those who’ve invested time
in being different.
Those who’ve dove
into their own directions
where infectious infections
actually have desires
of their own.
Where we’ve built an obsession
out of the progression
and the division
of different places
that have us migrating to our mazes
with puzzled faces
that get lost in order
and in the order
the wicked wind down
while acting kind
as memories rewind
from the things
they wished they’d done
to the games
they wished they’d won
and between these standards
we lose ourselves
in free speech.
Where the words breech
the walls of comfort
and the fall comes too fast
for those who pretend
and often offend
with their own way
of changing sentences
and pretences.
Where truths turn to lies
for those who rely on
waiting for us to catch on.
Waiting while watching
and walking along
towards censorship,
where all they can be
is what they hold back.
When words lack
a meaning
and show a knack for streaming live feeds
of the needs
that hide the greed
of their creed
from our numbers
that linger
with unpointed fingers
hidden in empty pockets
and with eyes in our sockets
and pictures in our lockets
we hold onto the past
for something that can last
past the final blast of manipulation.
Where one day
we might learn how to play
these games that fray
when the rules are entertained
by only one side.
Acting like they know
and are willing to show
how their words can grow
into sentences
that only make sense
when taken out of context
and get matched up
with the looks on their faces
that argue their cases for them.
It’s like we’ve slipped
and then become dipped
in things implied
and then denied
on their course of construction,
where truth comes with a definition
and the opinions
that it soars on
and the rest of us
are all left to rely on
those two great things it takes
just to make
an oxymoron.

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About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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