I’m supposed to have the answers,
but I don’t
and I don’t care.
Not sure I ever did,
have answers I mean;
I know I never cared.
I suppose it’s just a gift, I guess.
Sociopathic as it is.
to live my own existence.
But the questions linger,
they sit and rot and purge
and there are no takers
for the harlot’s shitty handbasket
that we all have to deal with.
So I guess society forces participation,
not through some altruistic gesture,
nor through the open, giving hand;
I seek the answers now,
because of fists and shit-storms,
and the certain knowledge
that I can give the world the one thing
that it might need
before I find myself a dirt patch to call my own.
I offer my hands,
whether by pen,
or by force,
or by work.
Make this world a little cleaner
than when I arrived.
This mess is all our fault, people.
Get your work clothes ready;