White Shoes

Mass produced,
if only we cared about quality,
not assured, only quantity.
The bank calls every time I miss a payment

Profit’s the only thing we care about.
Maybe in a hundred years
when the junk is too much to not notice
even though you could say it is now.

Piles of plastic
blocking my view of the sun
blinded from its beauty.
Can’t tell the last time
I saw the stars,
too many lights blocking
our view of Orion’s belt.
Blocked by flourescents.

We’re walking on Tesla’s shattered bulbs.
My feet bleeds from the histories we’ve forgotten,
turning those white shoes red.
Is this what my ancestors bled for?
We’re still bleeding.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Mass produce.
Maybe that’s the problem.

Too busy to clean off the blood.
Maybe I should buy new shoes.