What Makes Me Me

 What Makes Me Me

I woke up today
And looked at my feed.
Knew how to respond:
‘cause, know how to read.

Garbage in, they say,
Garbage out, it’s true.
I know what to say,
‘cause I know what’s true.

No matter what it is I hear,
No matter anything I see:
I know all I was told is true.
I know that is what makes me me.

It’s not a matter of thinking.
Not a question of being right.
It’s a matter of toeing it,
That drawn line that is clear and bright.

Writing is response;
It’s mechanical.
A push back on things
That aren’t ‘factual.’

And the facts are clear
They way they are sold,
Or shoved down your throat
By those with black gold.

No matter what it is I hear,
No matter what it is I see:
I know what its not genocide
If it is done by you and me.

It’s not a matter of thinking.
Not a question of being right.
It’s a matter of getting to
What they make us dream every night.

And who is to say?
And who is to judge?
And what is enough,
To believe the judge?

Blood taken by some
And shed by others.
Who says which is which:
Victim and killers?

I know that is what makes me me.
I know what I was told is true.
And the victim is always me.
And the killer is always you.

That drawn line that is clear and bright,
Is how I always find my way.
Not a question of being right.
Not matter what others say.