There is no music here
If only I could hear with Whitman’s ears
But for me, there is no singing
There is no pride in work that is undervalued and underpaid
No humanity in a CEO who squirrels away billions
For yachts or private islands or whatever that much money can buy
While his workers starve and his fellow citizens die from a virus
That’s only served to further line his designer pants pockets
He profits from our collective misery
If only I could hear with Whitman’s ears
But when I listen all I hear are the cries
Cries from the souls whose backs are broken
From the weight of this nation's foundation
From the mothers whose babies were stolen from their arms
Whose bodies were torn apart to make way for more stealing
Of half-white children and dignity and spirit
From the mothers whose babies are still being stolen
In the streets, in their homes, in their cars
It doesn’t really matter where when its here
In America
Sometimes I do hear tones
As I loafe and stare at those summer blades of grass
But they’re so dissonant
Carols of sorrow in a minor key at best
A cacophony of rage with no melody at worst
Where everyone is singing different lyrics
And half the people don’t know how to read music
They hate genres they’ve never really listened to
They don’t know that good music lifts you up
The more I think about it
I'm sure I never liked that Whitman song anyway
It sounds like the kind of mass-produced pop
That’s catchy at first, but then you can’t get it out of your head
It burrows into the back of your brain and you find yourself humming
When you’re in the shower, or driving your car or trying to sleep
You can’t seem to escape it
You know the kind of song I’m talking about
The backing track is the din of the machine
Droning on and on and on
Sure, there’s pride to be had in creation
But the pride is in the way it makes you feel
Not the way it fills your wallet
You don’t have to monetize every hobby you have
For it to have value
Its value is intrinsic
Made by you for you
Whitman sang another song, a song of himself
And if it was still a chart topper
Maybe everyone wouldn't have missed the part where
He implored us to live for ourselves
Instead of being told what to feel or like or think
Chances are the world will unfurl before you
Like a flower in that summer sun
If you let it
For now, all I know is
I can’t live without music
So how do I go on living here?
I languish and get lost in my dreams
Where the pipes are callin’
Not for my death, but my rebirth
Across the Wild Atlantic
Where those blades of grass are literally greener
They say home is where the heart is
And my heart’s not in it anymore
I'm sorry Walt
My throat's too sore to sing, and
I need a cup of tea
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Note: Prior to this challenge, I wrote some other poems inspired by America. If you'd like to read them, you can find them at:
https://theprose.com/post/399067/a-slam-poem-for-america https://theprose.com/post/404355/this-is-america