I’m sorry, I cannot find a way
To bring myself to fully answer your question
Regarding humanity’s ending passage of days;
Like you, I can’t seem to understand
Why we all pretend to be blind to the world in our hands.
This is a world, by writers, populated
Millions of geniuses, unpublished, unrated
And so distracted by luxury and amenity that
We subconsciously bury the people’s uniformity.
In any human life you will always find
--------An uncle with ramblings one of a kind
--------A coworker’s jokes with an audience resigned
--------A friend so moved, his reviews ramble until everything is defined
It’s a wonder why we remain so tumultuous
When we are all from your perspective so prealigned.
Forgive me ETs, but I am no leader
I am no more than a simple high school senior
I cannot give you wise or new insight
For in my youth to this I have no right.
But I do wonder why in school we are taught
Writing, the most arcane, is not
Speaking, the most paramount, is not
Sharing, the most salient, is not
Communicating, to not.
We’re not like you, we can’t bionically
Absorb all new information
We all go instead through
The same systems of education
(don’t ask why when we are a people of variation-
It’s not in my hands, but the hands of the nation).
Writing in institution is not a freedom
To meander, it’s hesitation
It’s a train on a track, straight forming
The click clack of the wheels on steel,
Of the fingers on type keys, unseeing
Past the screen light of tonight to
Smother any glow we might find in tomorrow
Unconcerned with what could and what might
To worry only over an old man’s idea
Of what is the wrong or the right.
But it’s inconsequential,
that definition of right or wrong
Because writing is supposed to be
The death of mortality
Adding your voice to the human song.
Our language is an essence, like water or air
We all can tap in or tap out
Without need of academic flair
Or the weight of a judge’s stare.
But this system has blinded us to who we are,
Who we’ve been.
Don’t abduct my peers, then
You will be disappointed, when
Of their learnings, they only can
Recite the shortcomings, unlike their elden,
Clearly none anywhere close to the path to be wise men.
To them our voice is a pain, not a means to channel.
Sharing, best silent
Communication, for naught.
And it doesn’t stop there, for
Our worries have bled into every
Fiber of our every intrapersonal exchange
To make all talk a path to the obvious and nothing more.
In all of us is an author whom publishing denied have we
Buried under parties or comedy or polite company or
the godly or the easy or forced inability.
I tell you of the end of humanity, to help you see
That we set a pencil to paper and leave the eraser
A perfect pink
Deleting the words as they are born in our heads
Any idea we have we think is just not worth the lead
You see as a species we always end but never begin
Wanting to something better create
But acting only to any innovation terminate;
Since needed communication is second to shallow pleasantry
How can we ever hope for harmony?
We can’t even bring ourselves
To scratch a word into paper, let
Alone cut the toxicity out of our Earth
And so my intergalactic friends
I tell you the tale of humanity’s end.
Listen close, you will hear it-
“-not well trained-”
“-Can’t find the words to explain-”
“-Don’t want to share the pain.”
If the ground was honest speaking, or deeper thinking
We’d be up in a plane-
And I know that-
Not all humans are beings of scrawled ink
Some are beeping numbers, others
Flashing shutters, a few
Put here only to be there when a child’s eyes flutter.
But no matter the passion we all could think
--------And even if our mental faculties are
--------Rusting, if our bodies no
We all could write, we all could speak-
We all have a voice, but we do not sing.
So please, when we die, ETs,
The funeral bell, ring.
And know that our demise
Was no irresponsible fling
But a flaw we put on ourselves
When no longer we cared to achieve.
We were a heartful species,
though too quiet in the face of everything.
Frightened little me.