That is just the way things are.
“Remember this my son… Rome wasn’t built in a day.” — Everyone
That will never change. It is too heavy. It can not move. We are in a crunch. Oh well. Worry about it tomorrow. Don’t let it ruin your lunch.
Take a break.
Put on the brakes.
Why should a puddle think he is a lake? This whole fits so well. It is swell in fact. Now the sun comes out and disappears this act. This is just the way things are.
I could end the poem here
Nobody would care. They expect it and won’t detect that I loathed deep despair.
I have published shorter on taller orders already to be fair.
But this one, it hurts me. Don’t desert me my steer. I have a fear that you miss what is dear and so near.
When the whole body can talk but no ear listens, when the water we drink ominously glistens
In our own precious greed. Completely depleted in the name of blind need.
Change only comes when we’ve taken back the deed.
Your house? It is on fire? Let me give you a drink. There is nothing we can do. It is best not to think. Of the future, we can’t fix it. Let’s just mix it with stink. It won’t be cold here. Have a cold beer. You are a mind numbing missing link.
The smoke? Just ignore it. I adore it. I think. Wait. No. I shouldn’t be thinking. I wink. Head to the tap and buy another drink. Someone has to clean it. This costs money. Let that sink.
America. Apathy. Diagnosis complete.
The treatment is death at the hands of deceit.
Watch the Simpsons in their natural habitat. Bart. Lisa. Maggie. Jessica. Fraser of the Scot. The land of Sims reaches to grab you. It makes you think not. The land of the free has already been bought. The theft of a culture that iron has wrought.
The scared bunny told me to jump onto the sea. Past the view of dogged apathy. Only then will you be the difference between
Don’t sink. Learn to swim. Learn to fly or learn to die. Your fall is the call for the death of a ball.
A dream filled with steam prepares to explode. The American’s self-diagnosis. Apathy. A victory ode.