Meant For?

Meant For?

My heart desires some idyllic happy ending,
a release from all this undesirable suffering,
both witnessed and experienced
in this minute flash of my existence.
Growing weary with each passing year,
unsure of which direction to steer.
For now it seems I’ve pulled from my funk,
writing more uplifting poems than previous junk.
Rethinking old thoughts, maybe not,
within earshot of no one, not a lot.

Although I am no super hero,
I admire those who came from zero,
who stoke the fires of world change,
and awaken us to our own range.
Who refuse to sit and ignore their conscience,
but instead lead lives that tear down the fences
that so easily divide and oppress,
until all the world hears are calls of distress.

We were not put on this planet to follow blindly instructions,
of madmen bent on world destruction,
whose only inner compass is that of mass production,
of widgets and cogs in war bound machines,
churning and turning out for endless greed.
Chips and bytes and space age inventions,
redesigned yearly without intervention,
created to fail within the next season,
as real problems go unsolved and for what reason?

While poor common souls sit soaked in the dust,
begging us for the pennies to feed,
hungry mouths, but instead we distrust,
and look to golden coffers with lust.
As politicians play ping pong with our lives,
we wish we could do more, perhaps even thrive.

They claim to be fighting for the common folk,
claim to understand all the pain,
as they guzzle their champagne,
never once bothering to share.
It’s like they don’t truly care.
Like the world’s a sick joke,
they merely turn a blind eye
to the suffering so obvious to you and I.

Why is it a question so radical and raucous
to ask where are the lobbyists for the common populous?
Is there any guarantee of protection,
afforded to you and me by the election,
of those so easily bribed by the change purses,
of the greediest men and their curses?

Why do people oft sit idly by,
when clearly hearing fellow citizens’ cries?
Sitting around with talking heads,
when action is what’s required instead.
Around and around the conversations go.
Years go by with nothing to show.

Now is the right time to prioritize,
before we remain in perpetual mourning,
at a loss for words from the devastation of no warning.
nor is the reason for our birth,
to feel like we have got no innate worth,
as we inhale meditations of smoggy toxic fumes,
carried by perpetual breezes into city rooms,

We sink our efforts towards promises of perfection,
get drunk on hope’s sweet libations,
idealize the tenets of all great thinkers,
while leading lives resembling great drinkers.
No matter the hours spent in isolation of study,
absorbing all wisdom both easy and muddy,
there is no insulation from the influence,
of this culture of consumerist pestilence.

Indulge yourself in the pleasures of life.
Find something spiritual to cleanse the strife.
We were meant to dance and to sing—
to hold great conversations for the truth that they bring.

Existence is more than just words on a screen,
The mysteries of life are just waiting to be seen.
“Look up, look out, get up, get out!” I want to shout.
Before you know it, life can just end,
so do your life with purpose, my friends.

D.L. Lang
D.L. Lang
Diana L. Lang is Poet Laureate of Vallejo, California. She has published nine poetry books under the pen name D.L. Lang, won several awards at area county fairs, and enjoys participating in the spoken word community of Solano County.
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