Oh you sad misguided sacks of shit
If you should ever get what you want
I hope you get what I wish
Oh you sad misguided sacks of shit
If you should ever get what you want
I hope you get what I wish
Probability says anything
can be accounted for…
anything.
I’ve drifted through enough decades
to smell
(from a distance)
bullshit.
The worst ideas
have been given
a fresh start
underneath the tutelage
of a waiting adversary.
We let this poison
be made ready.
(We set it against ourselves,
and sheltered it.)
Now we find
the incipient growth
has become a force
beyond our initial fears…
outside our previous bounds.
We must retrace our steps,
rediscover what we thought
of our former selves.
These are our flaws,
honestly earned,
from our misdeeds.
Pick your pillow.
Now we all lie.
I guess the worst of it
is the betrayal
of things once held
dear.
Now I surrender ideals
like a 19th century
baloonist.
Things that were once
so special,
now chucked to the side…
forgotten.
It’s my jetsam.
I’ll bear witness,
to my own failings,
thank you.
Now I navigate
with nothing more
than the arc described
by my discarded ideals…
I can see the path
my failures have described.
I cannot complain.
But
I will.