This is a piece about the seemingly oxymoronic identity crisis happening among the mass amount of young people produced from upper middles class families, that believe themselves to be politically and social "Moderate". These soon to be Proletariat are a threat to the way of life I hope to enjoy throughout my life. I don't normally explain my poetry, but I want you, my reader, to understand the imagery as intended, not as a mere visual. This poem is titled:

BAIT-


My blood is stained-
Purple- Deeper than a Midnight Eggplant
A Sweet Thick Mix-
Pomegranate and Blueberry-

A load Unfelt-
Rests- Upon this Burro with a Trunk
A Constant Pressure-
To Stay in the Middle

And as I shuffle-
Down- A dry Red Path to Then
I cannot Help but Feel Content
During the Now.