What is the meaning of it all?

What are we supposed to think?
To pen our thoughts in red ink?
To smile at puppies like we’re taught to?
To cry at death, but only when we ought to?
To mistake life for a dream?
To rip it open at the seams?
To cleave the threaders’ clever marks
and bleed a smile in the dark?
To hold a gun to our heads
when we’ve soaked through our only beds?
To drink the propaganda lies
When they have threatened us with spies?
To check our questions at the door,
and though we keep on wanting more,
they leave the answers out of reach?
Should we hear the poets when they preach?

The world is turning.
Our questions are burning.