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This Funhouse

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I wanted to write a poem that meant something to someone
And all I really could come up with were empty words tied together with useless meanings
So I looked in the mirror at my reflection, and waited for it to tell me something that I didn’t already know
But it told me nothing

How did we get here? This world that we loved so much, this country that we fought so hard to protect
Is nothing but a handful of sand, grasped hard by the dreams of a child, blowing away in the wind
Do we mean to be so ignorant, and on this journey of discovery did we maybe loose ourselves along the way?
Are we lost in the who and the when? Shouldn’t we be more focused on the why?

I often stare at traffic lights to try to guess when they’ll turn green
Maybe they should all just be a yellow light, people will take risks despite the colors that a box tells them
Stop if it is safe to do so, maybe I should’ve listened to that box
But maybe I’m just impulsive

So with these words I’v come up with, maybe someone will read them
Maybe they’ll even appreciate them like I do
Because all works of art are creations, and all creations deserve an audience
But maybe I’m just impulsive



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