Picking Daisies

I know Matt Whitaker
I don’t know Matt Whitaker

Except, here’s the thing.

We’re not picking daisies
Mr. President
you’re running the country
Mr. President
and you don’t even know who you know?
Mr. President

America is not one of your companies.
America is not your next big deal.
America is not another bankruptcy for you to cash in on.

Mr. President
we’re not picking daisies,
but if we were
she’d love you not.

In cold blood.

It’s people
who feel invisible
that do
the most heinous things,
and nobody
ever seems to know
who, what, where, when
or why such things could be done,
until after the fact
when there’s enough
evidence
to write a book in cold blood.

Conversations with myself.

I try to hang loose

but always end up

twisted, like a

damp dish towel.

Stained and tattered.

Are we really back here again?

Rinse and repeat.

Haven’t you learned anything yet?

Rinse and repeat.

I bet you like it this way, don’t you?

It’s quieter here…shh!

With voices in your head?  You’re too easy.

It’s alright if you sweat, just

don’t let them see you turn.

Are we really back here again?

Metaphorically speaking,

we never actually left.

Places just become new places.

People get replaced by other people.

Lies become fiction.

Truth becomes fantasy.

Like a damp dish towel,

twisting facts

until

they hang loose.