I think we have a problem with consumption
when nothing coming from something came from nothing
Every day the nothing that we see gets multiplied not magnified
And what’s left isn’t free, it costs as much as our pride
It’s mindless drowning of senses, it’s breaking down all our defenses
Leaves a cranially craving core logically wanting more
intelligence in this score or something not done before
Like doors that open up for a reason
To educate anyone through any season
The truth of this nation not the lies of creation
Or of pop-culture that forms false structures of art
Which quells the needs of the heart
How we breathe from the start
Says the up is now down
Makes you smile through a frown
Wants to place weight in hate
Seems to live underground
Shows you just how to pick up those pieces
of A3 paper glossed and gleaming
with already poked and prodded faces
splattered across text heavy pages
But the text isn’t heavy if you know what I mean
When “Who’s fucking Who” is the number one theme
It’s as if we live in inconsistent dreams
that are marketed for inconceivable schemes
by the ones who can offer undeletable means
To crush and control they’ll deny and deceive
In case you can’t think just as well as you read
then you will be transported by malevolent beings
to pieces of A3, blank, heavy, glossy
fake and sometimes lost or always exhausting
ways to advert from the obvious hurt
or the joy that you get
just from being on earth
Black Lips Poetry 