Triggered by the trigger.
A poem not about politics
A Note Before the Poem
I pulled up to a shoot location and saw a man painting. The way the light was leaking through the trees caught my eye. I asked if I could get a couple shots of him as he worked.
“Sure,” he said.
We started chatting and he told me he loved writing poetry. “Hey, I love poetry too.” The man shared elements of his story with me—his longing for love, this new chapter of sobriety. “My 20’s and 30’s were absolute mayhem. I was wild.”
That’s a hook and a half. I probably could have talked to Bobby all day, but I had a job to attend to.
Three things stuck out from our conversation: It’s never too late to rewrite your next chapter. Sometimes you have to let the old you die in order to grow into the new version of yourself. And I realized how much poetry I write but how little I share it.
So in the name of sharing my poetry, here we go.
I wrote this during political unrest, and quite frankly, the feeling I felt was anger. I saw people sharing their opinions, thoughts and prayers, conspiracy theories.
My Instagram algorithm moved from health and wellness biohacks to every person sharing their thoughts. A lot of them were very similar.
At one point I wanted to make a video, but it felt reactive—like I was leveraging people’s fear and uncertainty for views. Being in the media space, I realize I have to play the game, but I’m not here for the parasitic ways.
After Kirk’s assassination, people were blaming each other, making fun, throwing hate, celebrating, crying. I saw all sides of the spectrum. Something stirred up inside.
P.S. Not a fan of politics.
P.S. on the P.S. This is a poem about being triggered—and then realizing we all are.
Triggered
Problems — opinions
They echo in the chambers
We don’t need change
We need paradigm rearrangers
I don’t have time
To hear you whine
Grief is a thief
Maybe this is a sign
Or maybe it’s deeper than what we’re being sold
Deeper than the story that is being told
Fox in the morning
CNN at night
I’m a trained paradox
That’s groomed to fight
The left is right
No! The right is right
The darkness moves in the day
But the light shines in the night
Wake up they say
Wake up and smell the flowers
Watch the manipulation
The greed and the power
Keep your mouth shut!
Hide in your shell!
Believe in what I believe
Or you’re going to hell!
We stroke each other
Choke each other
Blame it on the woke other
Talk behind his back, but call
Him brother
Hate is a bloodsucker
Hate is a motherfucker
The algorithm knows you better
Than your tight ass sweater
It pays free rent in your mind
It hijacks your thoughts
It hijacks your time
Watch how you react
To the words I share
I say something out of pocket
And suddenly you care
Care about what?
Being heard or seen
So you leave a comment
And your ego feels supreme
So what is freedom
If it’s no longer free
Do we live in a land of hate
And moral hypocrisy
I’m not mad. I’m sad
‘Cause I have a dream
Of one day being a dad
I refuse to raise a kid in a place
Where the normal state
Is a country of division and hate
Look in the mirror
A splinter in your eye
A plank in my own
Wake up you cyborg —
There is a sweet potato sitting on a throne
I grew up in a world
Where I was proud of where I came from
Now I don’t know what to believe
Or what we’ve become.
Look, maybe that’s the point.
Maybe not knowing is the first honest thing we’ve said in years. Maybe admitting we’re lost is how we find our way back.
I met Bobby painting under trees, light leaking through the branches. He told me his 20’s and 30’s were mayhem. Now he’s sober, writing poetry, starting over.
It’s never too late to rewrite your next chapter. (It sounds like a poster you'd see in your doctors office) but there is a lot of truth there.
This poem was a raw, unfiltered rant about how exhausted I am watching everyone—left and right—lose their minds online. But here’s what I really want to say: we can still choose forward instead of just choosing sides.
Not left. Not right. Just forward.
Thanks for reading.
Be well,
-Fletch