The Chest Pounders

I.

Stop pounding your chest.

Stop waving your guns.

Stop spouting your hate.

II.

Politics is dead

Civility is too

III.

You scream and pout

Morning, noon, and day

Scrabbling and rambling

in some ideological wake.

IV.

The eyes sting,

not from the endless screen.

The bile rises

not from Youtube antics.

V.

It's the rants,

the blame

the constant flame

of political guns.

VI.

I want to turn it off.

But it's coming from friends

that you never guessed

had harshness hiding

deep within their hearts.

VII.

The sheet’s torn off

And I see them talking

True to themselves.

I see the sickness.

I feel the sickness.

VIII.

When does it end?

When can this all go

back into the shadows

where it belongs?

IX.

The things I see.

The things I hear.

The changes,

damn these changes,

can’t stay hidden.

X.

Now comes the chest-pounders,

the flag wavers,

the gun toters,

the rabble rousers

with nothing to rebel for.

XI.

These ideological fools

are not themselves, anymore.