Dear Mr Potato Head, 

The sun rises, dances across the sky then dips behind clouds, sinking into the ocean, over and over and over again. 

Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. 

Endlessly, or so we hope.

 

You can’t seize anything from the seasons. 

No matter how many back room deals you do. 

No matter how many times you count and recount the numbers. 

No matter how many lies you tell, or tweets you tweet, or insults you hurl. 

You can smile and knife everyone in your party, it doesn’t make you powerful. 

You can lock children up, puffing yourself up and lording it over the vulnerable. 

You can talk up your “accomplishments”, they’re still nothing. 

Cruelty isn’t a badge of honour, it’s a scarlet letter.

That’s not power. 

You are not powerful. 

You never will be, no matter the office you claim. 

Oh you want it, you claw after it. 

You jostle and threaten and bully. 

Your hunger is palpable, and pathetic. 

It’s pitiful stuff.

It might promote you, temporarily, to a position of power. 

But it doesn’t make you powerful…

power isn’t yours for the taking. 

It was never yours. 

But you are too small and hollow to realise it. 

You fool. 

You sad, cruel, empty-chested fool. 

 

Can you dance across the sky and rise again? Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow? 

 

You can’t seize anything from the seasons.