Unseen Threads

(when asked, "is America falling apart?")

In the beginning we were the hate.

We buzzed and fairly sizzled with it.

It hung in our mouths with a tang like blood.

It was us and we were it.

There couldn't have been a better fit at any other point in history.

It felt like perfection,

Like death described by William Faulkner,

and the precise way things didn't make sense,

or when Christina would smile,

and the world would turn white.

It wasn't perfection though,

and we knew it.

That became part of the hate,

feeding the circle.

All that sweet perfection was fleeting.

A bat of the humming birds wing and the perfection was complacency.

Another second of sated feeling

But then gone.

I was always asked what it was,

What it meant,

What it should mean.

I became the smiling Buddha, "just live."

And I would wonder

how long it would take them to come to the right thought.

Only to feel the fleeting perfection.

I wonder if I'm the one who's broken,

Because I doubt everything I say,

Though I know it's true.

In the beginning I was the hate,

I was the misinterpretation,

I was my fear.

The hate inside breathes so hard

Pulling in all that you know,

Feel,

All you remember.

Hate becomes prophecy,

Control.

You take it in and make it everything you need to survive,

It's a guide.

What being dead must be like,

Everything an instinct.

Your body and sub-conscious go on auto-pilot.

You walk through crowds and all you see are the walls,

You float and make a place for yourself in your mind,

You push them all out mentally.

Like they only take up as much space as their minds think they need.

In the beginning I became the hate,

Because there is no one else who would control it.

I gave my life and mind to take away the insanity.

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