But why mum, why? Why? But why? But why is that? Why?

So. Questions.

Apparently when I was three years old I tormented the living daylights out of every person I constantly came into contact with by constantly asking; why? But why is that? To every explanation given I could have further why's. I'm surprised I made it to adulthood alive. I still do it to some extent. Why does it have to be that way? Why do I HAVE to do the housework? Why do I have mice? It might be a little maddening but I like to question entrenched beliefs which I don't think it necessarily a bad thing. I'm still like a dog with a bone about it as well.

As poets and writers I think the question 'why?' is a necessary one. We need to challenge whether we are writing something fresh and if not why not? We need to look around us and maybe shake things up a little by breaking the rigidity of society's paradigms by asking, why does it have to be like that? Which can bring forth interesting ideas which you can expand on in your poetry.

Another question may be; why do I have to describe a situation in that way? If you're describing a scene maybe look at it as if you are looking through the eyes of say, the cat, and instead of describing it in the first way that comes to mind perhaps challenge yourself to describe the scene in a fresh way (not too fresh we did purple prose last week).

We need to learn our craft before we can pull it apart of course. Like the writer's advice 'learn the rules and then break them'. But always ask 'why?'

A question that recently infuriated me was 'Why do people believe everything they read on the internet?' and from that I got this poem, it's unpolished but here goes;

Conspiracy theorist

Silhouetted in a plasma glow on his swivel soapbox

he crouches forward, keyboard in lap, eyes like a preying fox

 furious upon his quest to educate us stupid people

referring to those who don't believe his crap as merely 'sheeple'

He's convinced that 911, 7,7 were in inside jobs

That there's poison in the toothpaste you shove into your gobs

Lizard people walk the earth, there's poison in the sky

Illuminati run the planet, everything is a lie

Cherry picking science that fits (but of course it's all conspired)

Painting a picture of a world where all our fellow men are liars

He's done his research plenty, with lots of youtube videos,

 Relies on his  gut instinct too, there's something wrong, he just 'knows'

Now if he ever left the house and did serious research,

I'd might have more respect for him upon his 'truther' search

It isn't truth he's looking for, but superiority

So he spends his days on David Ike's site, drinking lots of tea

To share it all on his Facebook and for youtube comment fights

There may be a conspiracy but I'm sure his theory's trite

Militant athiests chemtrailing angels, no I won't bite.

This argument would never end, it's circular, eternal

No requests for books for him or subscription to a journal

No chatting to some witnesses or an expert point of view

They're in on it and because you don't believe him you are too,

Opinions taken from easy to digest hyperbolic blogs

Constructed into theories why his life's gone to the dogs

 

The truth is in the outside world, the one at which he's leery

Go and ask some experts sunshine, go find your own damn theory

But he won't do that either, nope, their out to get him you see

He knows too much he's a threat to national security,

He eyes his mum suspiciously as she brings another brew

They already know he's on to them, have they got to her too?

His is a circular argument , everyone's in on it

from simple explanation a cunning plot he'll try to knit.

Crafting spurious connections, and driving himself crackers

I for one would like to drop-kick him squarely in the knackers

Yes society does not sit right, his blind-sight is not wrong

advertising  and the media, they sing a bullshit song

The government is lying, corporations and  big Pharma

guessing fantasy motivations doesn't make him calmer

The opposite, he sits and swells devoid of vitamin D

His stress and paranoia grow amidst conspiracies

So he'll set these sheeple right on-line, he likes to mock and goad

Ignoring bills that kill free speech and food banks down the road

Fracking under his mum's house, his nan without much heat

But we're all sheeple now you know, no matter what we bleat

A shiny foil hat he wears, to keep out waves, it's belting

He'd better take it off soon though, I think his brain is melting.