Our Pieces Of Paper And Frustrations Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Every place I run is chaos.
Disaster fondled with disasters.
Situation mingled with situations.
A million different ways of living in tension.
Nobody seems happy anymore.
Conversations are always about problems.
Unresolved aggravations.
Uncertain deliberations.
Why are we all so lost in ourselves?
So tangled up in webs of frustration.

Every heart I encounter is bound in pain.
A conversation begun becomes a therapy session.
Endless verbs on this or that problem.
I actually don't have communication, instead
I share in a mutual experience of depression.

Why are we not happy?
Why do we all feel the weaving of dissension?

When I was a boy I remember being so
excited to become an adult.
I would eagerly dream of how lovely life
would be for me and my friends.
This is the game that was played for us.
We were promised such glorious freedom!
Such a life of adventure and contentment.

We are surrounded by so many material objects.
So many electrical appliances and toys
that should surrender us to so many possibilities.

But there is never enough money and never
enough time to enjoy our possessions.
Scrambling like fools trying to pay the rent.
Pay the bills, pay the price of surviving.

And frankly that is all we ever seem to do.
Survive. Ramble from one tension to another.
One argument to a thousand others.
Telephones ringing with voices demanding
our pieces of paper.

Judging success by the size of the wallet.
Determining happiness by the number of
wounds we have inflicted upon one another.

Is it any wonder so many of us are so
determined to kill ourselves with out
addictions? Is it really such
a surprise that so many of us
do not smile at anyone?

Lining our pockets with false illusions.
Living our lives with plastic dreams
manufactured for us by plastic minds.


Surely this is not how God
intended us to be!