Mr. “President”

True Colors © Anthony Fieldman 2016

Billions of souls, adrift on a dot,

Vying for dominance, all but for naught.

The world is a stage, and we are all actors,

We choose to destroy or to be benefactors.

Your false allegations fired at random—

Callously lying with total abandon—

With no one listening, everyone talking—

Stalking and mocking, balking and squawking—

What’s your ambition? Why is yours best,

When your world and your views are so violently expressed?

Do you hope to bombard your own yard ’til it’s scarred—

’Til the ground underfoot’s a domestic graveyard?

The actions you take make the bed where you lie.

It’s a tiny blue planet we all occupy.

To deface and maraud, the way you insist

You act the Grim Reaper, like some nihilist,

Who lays waste to his doorstep, wrecks his own house,

Cripples his children, tramples his spouse.

How can you not see it, in front of your face?

Your cruelty’s inhuman, your actions—disgrace.

You’ve brought out our worst, by thrusting your fist

At any and all on your infinite list

Of perceptual enemies, all in your head;

You beg them to worship you, or wish them dead.

By acting the Kraken, tormenting the seas

You’ve put fear into everyone, sowing dis-ease.

We see who you really are, terrified child:

You are exiled, reviled, with a psyche defiled.

You hate who you are; deep down you are crying—

Expressing your pain by being terrifying.

You rage at the air and throw tantrums like infants,

With zero control over your own existence.

For those who see through you, terrified duckling

We muster compassion despite your swashbuckling.

But you can’t even hear us, you’re screaming too LOUDLY,

Ravaging allies, wounding profoundly.

So onward you pillage just like Genghis Khan

Then retreat to your throne—your gold-plated john.

Safe from all enemies, real and imagined

Those fake evildoers your tiny mind fashioned.

It is not as you deem it—’twas never so bad

Until you hemorrhaged your way into office, you cad.

Put your fat orange thumb on the trigger to blackness

The risk of oblivion, no more of this madness.

It’s where you’ve been taking us, goading us, egging us;

Using your court in ways that are treasonous.

We’re better than that, even you — damaged soul

We can still fix the wreckage, still fill the hole.

The one that you’ve dug for your very own brothers

Sisters and uncles, grandpas and mothers.

We’ll erase all your damage—your ill-gotten wealth;

Restore the world’s grace, in spite of yourself.

We are better than this as a human community,

Given to goodness and partial to unity.

We’re all works in progress, our plays being penned;

We write our own acts to whichever end.

We can bend or amend, ascend or contend

Pretend or defend, attend or transcend.

Choices for all — our own to determine;

All that matters is actions, not trivial sermons.

We must master our weaknesses, conquer for good

If we wish for our children to reach adulthood.

We are better than this, so much better than this!

But the time’s running out to escape this abyss…

Of your making.

The Four T’s: Donald, Don Jr., Ivanka and Eric © Anthony Fieldman 2016

Good riddance.

Architect | Photographer | Writer | Polyglot | Windmill Jouster | Nomade Civilisée.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store