Discontent

Living in this country comes
with a responsibility, for which I
didn't ask. Not many of us
did. To call the others lucky would
be to erase what was before,
to belie the present, and
to idealize the future.

Ignorant options, all of them.

I like to think that I
would have chosen better, but perhaps
not, I was never given the chance.

Would I be a different person
had my feet never
touched ground in the "Land
of the Free"? Is this burning
dissatisfaction universal? Its angry fists of
logic pummel me from the inside
out, its raspy, discomforting voice
sometimes finds its way out from
my own mouth, only to discover
a hand clamped firmly over it.

You've got free speech, as
long as you're willing to paint the leering red
eye on your own
chest, hand the gun to
your adversary.

Government issued bulletproof vests ensure
relative safety, but a shot to
the leg can still take you down.

Maybe the screaming slows, or
stops with age. Teenagers love to
dramatize and complain.

I feel different, though.
As do we all.
Conformity is inevitable when
there's nothing left to do. However,
I'm still in denial over
the death of originality.

I find myself sitting in a classroom,
agreeing with something
that I don't really believe, for lack of
a better option.

I find myself making excuses for
excuses.
They're not really mine to make.
They're ours,
and they were unnecessary to
begin with. Lies always look
so easy, don't they? But it could be
much simpler if honesty
was our policy.