Where to begin?
The end is in sight,
Tethered to some event behind the horizon I cannot focus on.
The right side of a timeline is always preferable,
To my fractured mind.
I tell myself that the past matters too,
But how, exactly?
We are here,
How is it supposed to matter that these events outside of our control,
Should force our hands?
To prevent mistakes?
To avoid repetition, they say.
But what happens when we trust the paths of other men,
And ascribe them to women?
Has anyone thought about the consequences?
WE live in a wasteland,
A spiritual fallout,
and we wonder why.
And yet the river that forces our bodies is shaping our minds,
Into thinking that unique thought is akin to pride,
Which led to the fall,
Of all of mankind.
The current trend,
Seems to be,
That all life was lived up until yesterday,
So just take your pick.
There are hundreds of paths for you to walk on,
With conveniently labeled footprints,
Of all those people who walked it best.
Your life belongs to your brothers.
All the credit goes to your mother,
The inspiration from your father,
And special thanks to your sisters.
This isn’t your beautiful house,
Not even your mediocre wife:
Your life is not yours.
It’s a misnomer.
We already lived your life,
We’re the template you don’t know about,
The ones who struck deep into the skin of existence,
And left our scar.
Trace the line,
And everything’s fine.
But don’t fuck this up.
If you try to walk into the wilderness?
Think that you’re better than all this?
I’ve got some advice for you:
We pull the strings and we don’t like unpredictability.
Look at the last few:
Nailed to a cross.
Shot himself after killing millions to make himself feel unique.
Locked in prison for the majority of his life, for inciting others to look around, instead of up or down.
He was executed for war crimes against tyranny.
He struck out with explosive fervor and as a consequence, suffers the epitome of the fate he feared.
We take care of those who wander.
They cannot be left to their own devices,
For the greater good.