My favorite color is grey

They read the words off the prompter
a false smile, or look of shock falls on their perfect faces
Their eyes dead to anything but the studio lights

Behind a computer screen
a flurry of words
toxic sludge formed in verbs and pronouns

Feeding into the masses
tubes are burrowing deeper into our minds
filling them with whatever thought is right

A fire hose
spraying us down
trying to rinse away the antibodies

We are becoming drones
Biological machines programmed to listen
but speak no ill words
To see
but only through a fractured filter

Thoughts become words on a screen
scrolling down slow enough for us to both read
and regurgitate

Conformity
the bleaching of our hearts and minds
Replacing the individual
with the collective

Slowly we become a mass of humming
dreary
disciples

To die free with an empty head
is better than to be imprisoned with a full one