I tell her my concerns. 
She tells me
it's just how life works.
I tell her
no.
I tell her it don't make sense aloud
or on paper.
I tell her I spaz when my day is full of everything contrary to my nature. 
I tell her my mind was masterfully made for other things,
I tell her this ain't it,
but she equates my suffering with maturity,
she tells me
this is what it means to be
an adult.
I tell her no.
I tell her no.
I tell her no.
I tell her the brain will always rationalize dysfunction, 
and you can always find acceptable what you rationalize,
and your life is a reflection of what you find acceptable, 
and you live or die by your reflection. 
She tells me to chill.
She tells me to count my blessings. 
But she doesn't mean it.
She too is restless.

The prestige has worn off.
And now I’m the one
my younger self mocks.
Status don't fill the soul.
And the money comes too slow when you dread the job.
I tell her it's odd--
reaching the top, just to notice something is off.
The people are pawns.
Systems too far gone.
The leaders are gods.
Everything is wrong.
She tells me to grow up.
She tells me it's ‘cause I don't got a family to take care of. 
I tell her she might be right.
But I doubt it.
She tells me this is what it means to be an adult.
I tell her no.
I tell her no.
I tell her I won't. 
I tell her the system must break.
The factory must close.
I’m not here to coast.
Or put my joy on snooze.
I tell her 

we must remind everyone
what it means to be human
if it's the last thing we do. 

--No.127: This Ain't the Move.

Cover Photo by Gemma Evans on Unsplash