Trapped In Plastic Suburbia , a poem by Drem

From 2012. Originally called Plastic Establishment. I didn’t find it descriptive enough. The more descriptive the title is, the more views and likes it gets. So, here it goes. I’m still listening to The Struts and trying to get this one out. I’m tired. Cat is sleeping. He got really fat. I think I gained weight too. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

This was heavily, heavily edited. And after finding out Vicodin isn’t a widely legal narcotic I included it’s Australian semi-equivalent Panadeine Fort so it makes sense to you. Vicodin is a highly addictive narcotic and it’s illegal in other countries probably because it’s highly addictive. And causes a host of side affects. Mood swings. Depression. You name it. It fucks with the mind. And it can make you high.

Trapped In The Plastic Suburbia Establishment, a poem by Drem

May 2, 2012

“Buzzing wristwatches.

It’s August

almost

and even the light

has turned with the leaves

to yellow and burgundy.

Soon we’ll get to where

we need to be-

to a home

with a rug

and thermostat

that’s working.

Cozy.

And we’ll work

to buy our dinners

and invite people over

for get-togethers

in this little fake suburbia

of our making.

The years will go by

and we’ll find ourselves

soon in Spring

with buzzing wristwatches

in sync with the bumblebees.

And I’ll cry

because I never shed tears

for good reasons,

according to you.

Numbing. I’m numb.

So I’ll start pushing the eyes

towards the new blue sky

and white sun

to face the future

of our plastic dreams…

no, I mean your dreams.

The predictable future

in the heart of me

bleeds

a little bit

when the local analgesic wears off

and I move.

a little bit.

Your non-biodegradable store

in the seas,

the ocean seas

of your eyes

pollute me.

The waves of which

push forth

and trap me in this home.

I’m held back

by the insecurity

of the placement

of my makeup.

I don’t want it to bleed

down my face-

the face that you want kept

perfectly porcelain

and clean.

Silverware.

Silverware.

Which side does this spoon go on?

I don’t know.

I can’t remember.

I can’t recognize the placemat.

It, it makes you hate me

that I see past all this.

And what the point is

to the fallacy.

The facade.

I down my Vicodin or your Panadeine Forte

to keep up the parade.

The marching band goes

and your machine.

Tumb over my keys.

You keep the lock locked

and the clock turning- tick tock

in the plastic suburbia

of our making.

The doll clothes we put on teenage girls

appall me.

And the boys who drink beer

and go out and steal

the future of unsuspecting

nice girls like me

are a younger version of you.

The tears

drop down

the cheeks

of those girls

you call “sluts”.

You called me that.
And look where I am now.

I should have developed

a fear

of you.

I should have developed…

myself.”

(c) Drem 2016 All Rights Reserved


11 thoughts on “Trapped In Plastic Suburbia , a poem by Drem

  1. I love the lines about wristwatches and buzzing bumblebees. I feel a lot of anger in this poem, projected. How do we make peace either our lit anyway? That’s what I’d like to know. You are about half my age and I’m still in the throws of grief, anger, pain…does it ever go away? Jx

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I think I spend so much time in suppression. The only outlet I have is in my writing. I carry the pain everywhere. I carry my past everywhere. Even though it’s not in the forefront of my mind, it’s there. I feel wronged. And though I’ve let it go., I don’t forgive, I don’t forget- because I think the worst thing someone can do is hurt a child. It’s the most evil thing one can do. And as a child who was hurt, I don’t feel like granting forgiveness to the abuser. They don’t deserve it. And I’m not going to feel better by the process of forgiveness. I tried it. It didn’t work. And made me feel weak. A victim all over again.
      People say anger consumes you. It doesn’t consume me. It’s just a part of me. And I don’t think it’s right for people to say I should just get over it and forgive. No. I need to learn from my experiences. I think I’m going on a rant. Sorry. It’s the sleep deprivation. And I remember a comment I got from someone about forgiveness and I essentially said that the person should go fuck themselves.

      I don’t know if it goes away. A part of me doesn’t want it to because I don’t know what life is like without it.

      And it’s cute that if one meets me I’m this happy chipper girly girl. It only comes out in my writing.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. HI,
    I know Jodine and Danny Ray. I met you on his site.
    In response to what you wrote: sad, when love turns sour. Sadly, all too realistic.
    Congratulations on being Danny Ray’s featured blogger. I was his featured blogger too! I found you on his site.
    Janice

    Like

    1. I’m glad we reconnected (:

      I wrote biographical trauma poetry. This is actually one of my lighter works. Everything is pretty depressing, except my I’m Sorry Cat series. Those are funny to lighten the mood ❤ Also my occasional photography uploads are pretty.

      Thanks for clicking on the link! Hope you come by again soon and connect with one of my works.

      Like

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