Carbon Copy Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Yes I'm all dizzy and tired and concerned
about the blurred vision of plastic minds.
Thinking that if I reach internal nirvana
I won't feel so weak all the time! Why pretend
to be concerned when the streetlights don't
splatter on at night?

When the towels are slapping and the hang-over
has begun, we'll be wishing for salt shakers
filled with peppered ice. Why let concern
milk your emotions when the vision is
as sick as a worried old lady in hell?

Snarling sharks circle the wagons, demanding
that the hair be cut and the suit put on.
Conform! That is the mantra, the intoxication.
I wonder where the deodarant really gets applied?

It's all a massive headache, this trying to imagine
a set form of rules. Planning for success and
putting away the emotions for failure.

Looking like hell inside but outside the glamour
is floating. Upset with the members of Parliament
who sit in isolated splendour playing at 'getting
things done'. But what's done is the thinking,

the imagination that is floored by the teen years.
We are all carbon copies of one another. Sharing
the very same feelings of absolute isolation.