Soapbox

It’s early April, the sun’s turned
raging hot, I might soon be burned.
My skin charred while I’m still conscious,
I grab the chance to be pretentious,
About climate change, I turn poetic
with activist lines while I stay static,
alone in my car, over the speedbump I fly,
I switch on the AC; ‘Global warming’s a bitch’, I cry.

NaPoWriMo, Poem 5