I can see it oh so clearly,
the thing most hold so dearly,
the picture just won’t leave my head,
the perfect suburban family, the mother makes the bed,
the father is out at work, becoming tense,
earning the funds for that white picket fence,
the children are taught backward here,
school replaces their whimsy with fear,
gives them the mold it would seem,
for their very own american dream.

Children aren’t in the well-worn lanes,
with cotton in the head for brains,
because the people in the lanes, making the beds,
poor them; it’s not just their heads,
but their senses and their wings,
are infected, with wretched things,
capitalism, patriarchy, ignorance,
objectivism, racism, intolerance,
whatever the name for the paradigm,
it covers our natural shine with grime.

In white colonial homes on bright green grass,
live white colonial people, who could never be crass,
they are porcelain dolls with china laced,
eyes set straight forward, not looking down to their waste,
if only they could move their eyes, and be unfurled,
they would see past their perfect little world,
if they could comprehend their capabilities,
and perhaps lose their “sensibilities”,

And take
a lesson from the children,
so they could learn forwards,
and
Break
from the mold (mould).