The Kids Are All-Right...?

They say,
“You are what you eat”
as they feed us processed treats
and they tell us that they love to see us smile.

Then our teeth are drilled about,
squeezed together,
taken out,
the pain of which is dampened with a dial.

“The kids are all-right,” they say,
sedated and called ‘bright,’
we pay for beauty, for knowledge, and for health.

Though the damage is unseen
we start to fear things deemed ‘unclean’
and chase a chalice lost to many labeled ‘wealth.’

Perfection is its poison
that we drink as holy wine
it takes its time to bruise our innards
with its chokehold from behind.

“The kids are all-right, PLEASE!”
they beg of us to stop our asking as the burden’s awfully taxing to them now.

They’ve got children sick in bed—wah!
crying off their heads
and their smiles can be ordered up no longer.

Still they send us off to bed
with a bandage round our head
and they promise us this pain will make us stronger.

As the children drop like flies
some begin to question why—
could it be distance truly makes the heart grow weaker?

I ponder from my drafty bed,
wishing for a hand instead—
I dream of freedom
and a fire everlasting.

“And the kids—how are the children?”

Underfed and almost full
of empty promises—
so please:
continue asking.