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I can no longer reach into my pocket
And pull out the contentment
Assumed of buying happiness
I recognize it
Not there
Nor does illusion last
When it comes
From the pocket of collection
There is no resolution
Buying away troubles
Money gone and bags full
I am not happy for anything
But a new outfit
I might wear once
Twice if I can buy new shoes to match
Each time
Worn out by this cadence

I am beat down by the humdrum
Of collecting nothings
Making them needs-wants
I distastefully swallow
Without so much as a gulp
It is easy to digest
Doing what everyone else is doing
When there exists a choice
To change the channel
The baby in Kenya
With flies on his food and face

How could we be so smothered
How have we lost our ability
To view truths without
A plan to change anything
But the channel
We have become a society
Engrossed in name
And heightened
Void of consequences
And reality
We have become trees without stumps
Clouds without buoyancy
Flat and drab
We have become tasteless
Full of way too many channels

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