Enough! I've had it! I'm so sick of myself. I'm nothing but another hypocirtical bullshit poser. You think I'm crazy don't ya? Calling myself out like this... out in front of all of you. But I can't do it anymore. I can't pretend to be frustrated and upset when I really don't give a shit.
Kids are starving in Africa? But what are we going to do? What are we REALLY going to do? Let's hold a benefit concert that costs 2/3 of what we raise, give only until our charitable tax benefit maxes out, and buy food to send overseas that is stolen by war lords before it even reaches the people in need. It makes the most optimistic optimist want to stand up and scream What's the FUCKING point?
The points are not the point, poetry is the point.
Then it must be poetic justice how pointless life seems.
Maybe it's money. Will it set me free!
First off, money won't grow on a tree.
There's no such thing as a free lunch, honey.
Even if there was, the time it takes costs money.
What if lightnning strikes twice and you win the lottery?
You get a car and a house, with a yard, and a tree.
But lotto tickets cost a dollar, sometimes even two or three.
Taken from your paycheque is income tax. The cost to make a living.
When you die there's probate tax. That's right, a tax on your giving.
When you live your life just to make money,
I don't see how you can call it "making a living"
When you die it's gone and can't go with you,
All that effort waisted on houses, cars, or bling.
Maybe it's fame?
Sure! Let's get a call back for the pilot of a brand new prime time syndicated sitcom series.
Only to have our surreal life cancelled for low ratings during sweeps.
As we hold on to reality by a string let's wind it up tight and pluck our luck with a pick.
We'll snort coke up our nose to feel like the real thing.
But we can't beat the fact that peppy and positive thinking,
Won't make this next generation what it's cracked up to be.
While driving under the influence of the lies we crash into a wall.
Truth & innocense? There were in the back seat.
But they didn't die on the scene.
No, they died years ago
When you pulled the plug on life support & let it go.
Turn to the drink! Aye that's the rub! Go out for a pint of ale down at the pub.
Or maybe some whiskey? Scotch, Irish, Bourbon or Rye.
But sonner or later the ale will fail, and your kidney will die.
Lasting 40 days in the clinic is your goal,
You check yourself in to rehabilitate your soul.
But it's a revolving door instead of a one way street,
And you can't help but feel beat.
This is just poem. Words made with ink.
But I hope it makes you take time to stop & think...
What's the point?