Everything is Propaganda

Everything is propaganda,

rigid lined flags up on the verandah, 

splattered with the crest and colors of your land, 

don't pretend that other nations weren't shown the same hand. 

You live and die for your motherland, 

for the covenant it pledged on the day of its birth, 

written on paper and pen. 

But parchment can be burnt and honors can end, 

and those sweet words are made out of tin and lead. 

Everything is an advertisement, 

small scale fraud in the inducement, 

all these tabloid articles for your amusement, 

with glowing billboards at the top of the page. 

They take your name, your age, your financial information, 

not out of malice, but to sell you the latest iPhone. 

And your friends won't hold that status quo, 

if you change, or stay, or choose to go. 

Everything is a shameless publicity stunt, 

the trees, the seas, the beating down of the sun. 

Out of creation brings forth a creator, 

and so brings forth a denomination. 

And we turned such hope into an abomination. 

The devil isn't in the details, it's in you and me, 

screaming in the streets, for an egocentric need, 

overstepping boundaries, living in quandary, 

and the just are now filled with a sickening greed. 

This poem is propaganda, and so is everything else, 

a pathetic need to soapbox my thoughts to someone else.