fun with words #2

so this poem sucks, but was born from a conversation i had with my professor last week in which she used the phrase "old american mythology" to describe our tendency as a culture to prize science and empiricism over art. i couldn't get that phrase out of my head and still eventually want to spin it into a song or something, but here's what i did with it for Fun With Words:

Draft 1:
the old american mythology
that lines our lands with asphalt veins
that puts our circles into boxes
that creates five-syllable words for our art
that reduces our hearts to pink, fist-shaped muscles
will not protect us when we close our eyes

rules don't apply to dreams

control is no answer to chaos
you can't build a bigger gun
they all kill at both ends
catching butterflies doesn't make them yours
doesn't impart to you the secret of the cocoon
that's a gift given, not taken

Draft 2:
the long, black american car
driving through our veins
that get put into pine boxes
that leave nothing but words as art.
it reduces our pink, fist-shaped loves and
will only leave us when we open our eyes

adieu to dreams

control or chaos?
you have a bigger gun
they explode at the end of the barrel
catching butterflies can make you believe, but
can't impart the safety of the cocoon
that's your dream, not mine.