Post-modernism has slipped her enervating noose over us, and silently six billion souls gasp, horrified but unaware. And none act. It is too late. Too late. And now no-one can remember what it was to feel!
And fixed in form like indestructible polypropylene packaging we suppose, as the airways close, that we are doing precisely what we want! Shrink wrapped, hanged, and ready to be recycled. But how could we know what we really want?
What else could I want? What else could there be?
No one ever told me how to choose.
Please tell me what you think
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trapped and helpless
Confused on choices and unable to understand the full consequences of our actions. The reference to packaging and ready to be recycled is probably my favorite part due to the fact that there are several times a day when I throw away parts of my personality because it's not everything I want it to be. Post-modernism has me too crazy, too poor, too dumb, too silly, too quiet, too fat, too ugly, too serious, and most of all I think too real. I can't choose if I can't decide what's me and what's them. I can't remember a time when I was actually genuinely happy with myself. But at the same time that it sucks, it's what drives me to improve. The question is am I improving on my behalf. This poem is awesome because it made me think about just how much of what bothers me is insignicant, and helped me sort out what really matters to me.
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