all these studious trees I see from this domestic plane of plain old patchwork, patched together by people chained and free. The last frontier. Americas dream and fear.
Ride on, ride out. All foreign wild and free to see the steely icons in the land of the brave. Home of the tame.
live. steal. love. be.
Taste the American truth, cause the American dream is ideal and I think in terms of unrealistic feels. My feels. My time for ideals. I’m broken in a land of jokes and false idols. Idolizing martyrs and turned out poets who speak only in bullshit and prophetic psalms. Written for them, for us to hear.
Here I am. I wear the uniform of war. I’m not ideal, but someones got to do it. I’m real and I’ll smile to it. I chose this. So sink your teeth into our eyes America, there are faces to this war. Our places are yours, but not our homeland. Everyday it hurts to watch our families grow before.
We’re alone. We don’t want your thanks and transient glances. Your barely there handshakes and warm chairs, thank yous and tears. We want your truths, your finish lines. Your eyes meeting mine. To know you’re there and that you’ll stand by and be there to remind us why we’re here and you’re home. To know that when the war is over we have faces and places and hugs to come home to. And you.
Now close your eyes. You are me. Us. Everywhere. You have left your home and family. You have broken bonds you thought, promised, swore would never break. Are you still there?
Now you are on a plane. Where are you going? Are you going to come home? Will anyone be waiting for you if you do? Will they recognize you? Will you? Or will you come home, adapted, and be alone? First in, last out. First on, last off. Home alone.
Send me off again. and then….
Then one day when we cross we can talk about the news, and chat about the weather, whether we want to or not.