You called it cereal box philosophy.
Mass produced tidbits and factoids
that ultimately amounted to nothing more
than the latest fad in new age wisdom.
You said that everyone who spoke that way
was buying into the same prefabricated speech
written for idiots
too sightless to know any better.
When I ruminated on my life
and the myriad of ways it wasn’t turning out according to plan
you accused me of being naive
and buying into the same cookie cutter promises
of the American Dream that you said
I was too intelligent to believe in.
You laughed at my epiphanies,
as if they were so obvious
that even the blind would see them.
You accused me of wanting to stay stuck
in the cyclical repetition of my own mistakes.
Told me I was more than capable
of choosing not to do the things
that chained me to the impossibilities of my life
and then rolled your eyes at me
when I marveled at your audacity.
The more I sought to understand,
the more helpless you accused me of becoming.
Saying I was victimizing myself
by whittling my problems down
to the last common denominator.
Defining me with the same psychobabble
you’d said I was so naive for believing.
And as I listened to your words,
as I believed your ‘truths’,