If it's not the radio waves coming from the tower on the hill that cloud our heads, then it's the one we see everyday, the one who's locked in our skin.
But that's the last idea-that it's the first of kin.
We've got to take it back.
We sleep to sew the seams that we oppose.
We shrink to fit in our pre-assigned roles.
Resist with each stitch.
Split the seams and start all over again.
Cut the pattern that fits.
Ready-made rarely means ready to fit.
A bleached whit tightness to bind and gag and scold The lines seen fit to fight will soon become our own.
Skipping skimmed meals waiting, maintaining this waning form. The lines we fought to fit have now become our own.
We cannot be tied down by roughly cut threads from the patterns of the CEOS.
We must learn to tie up their tower and it starts with ourselves.
They need no spokesman if you have no voice.