untitled 05 | 10.16.25

We’re people. We’re people. We’re people.

We’re people.

We’re people.

We are people.

We’re people.

What does one do?
What does one do,
when one isn’t viewed as a person?

Does one assert their personhood?
Does one recognize
the absurdity
of their invisibility and commit
to never erasing themselves?
Commit to never erasing others?

What does one do?

Does one still take the train,
alongside the sleeping man’s bench?
Does one continue
to live normally?
What does it even mean to live normally?
Is it living as if the violence
is still being done quietly?
In the background?

Out of sight?

What does one do?

Is it immoral
for one to erase themselves temporarily?
Is it immoral
for one to intentionally fog one’s mind?
Would the answer change
if you knew it was so
the music would more fully wash over one?

Is that frivolous?
Is that,
deeply important?

Where does one go?
Do the invisible
have a refuge?

Does anybody have a refuge?

What does one do
when the sky falls?

Surely, you run.
But where does one run
when the sky is falling?

It’s the sky.

I guess the sky can’t really fall
can it?

It’s the sky.

What’s happening?
Is this inevitable?

We’re people.

We’re people.
We’re people.
We’re people.
We’re people.