And take.

It just takes so long
for the songs to make sense.
Those words hidden by quotes
and fancy notes
that are doing their best
to define the rest
who really don’t care
when the noises blare
their names.
Now these things shake the sides
when there’s just enough to glide
and subside
in another background
where we’re found
in the compounds
of our own creation
and it’s our observations
that save us
from the munitions of guilt,
like things absolute
when answers imply endings
to the conversations
who’s abbreviations
give implications all the same.
And we’re wanted as tame
in a world away from screaming
where it’s a meaning
that’s heard
once the violence is blurred
across a landscape raped
by the hands that griped
and ripped
the fruit from their trees
and the skin from their knees
before turning to flee
to their own understandings.
Where they can again
be standing
in a place
where the case is
that no one cares
when they’re not forced to stare
and their minds don’t absorb
of their own accord,
just to avoid acknowledgement
of the darker side
of their pride
that they’ve all denied
up to the very end.
Where they know how they offend
with how they pretend
to send things back the other way.
We’re all related,
in a relative way
and all our places
are in place
on a spectrum
that welcomes dictation.
The kind that dissolves it’s definitions
and absolves itself
from what we all know to be true.
It’s a design that’s built this game
from the ground-up grinds
of broken body parts
where the rules are seasonal in nature
and the tools used
were just as abused
in the dissemination
of misleading information.
So where do you get your news?
From the sources confused
with the race
to be given a place
and status
where it’s only obvious
to those being silenced
by all the things
they were never taught.

About Sean O'Gorman

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

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