Poetry

The Pride Before, 24 (237.)

Sing a song!

It’s hard to be
put on the spot like this,
but my mind races
to answer the call, anyway.

I have no song, not now,
but I can’t stop thinking about how
every house I’ve ever had
is in a video game somewhere,
pixelated, literally unreal,
as in they’re not real,
and I’ll probably never have a house,
and if I do, it’s ’cause
I’m a privileged individual.

I hit roadblocks, sure.
Not every group or entity
is operating in my favor.
But there aren’t many groups
that are actively or implicitly
out to hurt me.
So if I finally get a dwelling of my own,
I’ll remember that I’m
a lucky bastard
and try to share the space
to the best of my abilities.

I wish I could be a
non-profit person.
I wish my charitable contributions
vastly outweighed my charitable intake.

Produce, don’t consume.
Converse, don’t assume.
Learn something, don’t leave

yourself hungry

without bloom
ing
to betterment.

This has been
a song of my generation,
I think.

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