Pop art and weasels,
the buildings have the measles.
2025 will go down in history as a straight jacket, reclaimed.
I could behave, but I’d have to give my rights away.
Truth comes to me in waves
like wrinkles on a newborn puppy,
I face each day a guppy:
spots and speckles on display.
Set the dial back to a time when folks like me slept in a cage,
between ice baths, we were tortured ’til our bodies passed away.
Generally peaceful,
when did I wave a flag,
cast a shadow,
label blame?
Nip at the alpha, stand up, or complain?
When our differences started being labeled deranged.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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