My Utopia

If I could create a Utopia, you wouldn't be in it.

In fact, it would just be me. And my cats.

And the dogs. The dogs would come

to me, with their furry faces, damp noses,

and needy hearts. They would do the work

because they need to. They have to

impress me. Or else, they won't feel wanted.

The cats will provide me with sanity,

and security. Stalking through the short nights.

Hissing, they would strike you with fear.

"Get out, this isn't your place. Isn't your,

Utopia!" They would growl, and you would flee.

In my perfect land, people wouldn't exist.

You just muck things up. Throwing around

all of you baggage like I give a shit. I don't.

Yet, there it sits, 200 pounds of fables,

On my front porch. You'd stand grinning,

Knocking. "Hello! We're here to see your

Utopia!" I wont answer. Piss off. This is my

Utopia. Then you'd run off, offended,

thinking that you would let me in

to your perfect land. If you had one.

Here's the gospel: You do.

Everyone, at some point, lives inside

Their own Utopia. Practicing eugenics and

genocide. Forging the perfect person. Irony

is that that perfection is not the leader

of our very own Utopia. He's the assailant,

assaulting the hills of our Capitol.

Waging war against the tyrant in charge;

You. Just like every other "Utopia".