This Culture

a rant or poetry or something

black and white. baby boy leaning over the edge of an arm chair, looking off into the distance.
Photo by the author, Lori and Erin Photography

I read novels & memoirs
so I can see through eyes other than my own.

I skim Facebook and Instagram
so I can think about lives other than my own.

I desperately want to have deep, meaningful conversations
but I am afraid to start them.

Behind closed doors, I am fierce.
Opinionated.
But I listen more than I talk
because I want to understand you
not hurt you.

I’m quieter than I was.
I’m thinking more than I was.
…Maybe that’s why I want to escape.

I’m over it.
No,
disgusted by it.

The culture we live in.

I don’t agree with the values of consumerism, profit first, status,
waste, plastic, convenience,
just throw money at the problem.
Don’t trust doctors, science, or the news.
Don’t trust your neighbors
or anyone online.

The world is out to get you.
Buy this to feel better, look better.
Pretend you’re happy.

I’ve been working on myself.
Digging deep into the muddy stuff.
Emerging through tears.
Week after week.

But no matter what I fix internally,
I still have to live in this culture.

This culture of debt, division, and hatred.
This culture of stuff and things.
This culture of money, power, and influence.

Of look at me.
Follow me.
Like me.
Clap for me.

Read me.
Listen to me.
DM me.
Pay me.

This culture where everything has a price
and there’s always someone who will bid higher.

This culture that values sales more than life.
That can spin anything to fit its narrative.

That can make up facts.
Sow confusion and fear for selfish gains.

That would drill ocean beds
rather than ride a bus.

That would eradicate insects
rather than get their hands dirty.

That would reroute waterways
rather than adapt.

That would dump their trash in the ocean
rather than bury it in their backyard.

That can’t be troubled to compost
yet complains about the landfills.

That whines about bringing a cloth bag
and bitches when it sees litter.

I’m sick of living in this
me me me
now now now
faster faster faster
more more more
world.

You’re not enough
not pretty enough
not rich enough
not funny enough
not talented enough
world.

I’ve had enough
of being
never enough.

So count me out.
Don’t count on my like, follow, or clap.
Don’t ask me how I’m doing if you don’t have time for the answer.

Don’t poke the animal
I just might bite your hand off.

words 18 months postpartum
photo 6 months postpartum

--

--

𝘈𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘷𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 & 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Lori A. Coleman

Lori A. Coleman

Newish mom, writing my way out of postpartum depression. Oldish photographer, telling stories about families, love and life.