A blank sheet, or a blank slate?
Sometimes I sit at my desk after work and stare at the city lights. I see the people walking around living their lives. Where'd I go wrong? How'd I end up here? Wasn't I made for better? Common questions racing through their minds and mine. The only thing we have in common is that we don't feel we belong. Every day I put my hands on the keys and try to type. I pour my soul into the paper and it remains blank. A reminder of potential squandered. Is each blank page an opportunity or just time wasted? I don't know. Night after night I sit and wait. Watch and listen. Write and dream but the page remains blank. I wish I could dream but that means I close my eyes. Close your eyes and find the world's passed you by. Now I sit at my desk and stare at the city's lights.
What do I wish for, in 2024?
Jesus to take the wheel?
Being too numb to feel?
Being too dumb to care,
about Earth's welfare?
For the people to feel?
The governments to kneel?
The covenants to expire,
on this simmering fire?
A paradigm shift?
A proper bootstrap lift?
A Copper to trap my ass,
behind bars and glass?
For me to get screwed?
And blued and tattooed?
For the crude to disappear,
and the smoke all to clear?
For the evil of riches?
Or the trifflin' bitches?
For the dick riflin' through
all the shit I accrue?
This isn't my game,
and I choose not to play.
There's no way to wish,
this reality away.