Unfortunately I am from the rickety, crickety mobile home trailer park. I grew up in a paper home that my Mama broke her back for, yet still couldn’t afford.
My father took his own life just to provide that monthly SSI paper check. Is it possible to love someone that you never really met? Will we ever know if what he did was really for the best?
Planted into all of our minds are ideas we chase and call dreams. Thinking we can go places because we have the “choice” of being mobile. Am I naive to believe I can still rise from the ashes without becoming the living example of crazy?
Inside I just want to scream; the anxiety of chasing green paper presidents having already broken me. God, tell me is it true?
Will I ever be able to provide my mother with more than a paper home? Is is possible to provide mental stability?
Sometimes I believe I will make it, but then would I question those around me suffering from the toxic starvation of credited paper? “Don’t worry your not alone”, is that the only comfort we have in this hell hole?
Excuse my paranoid improvisation, burned by sarcastic self-obsession. Since we can’t communicate, the next best thing is to be admired. Even hated?
Hope is now disguised as the love of a stranger. Is it strange to want to be close to a stranger while engulfed by stranger danger?
Wait, who here is in the true danger? America has been hijacked, yet we are still standing around like strangers.
