on a rowboat out in the bay -

far from roads

and far from city toads.

Far from mouths

and far from towns,

faraway to slightly humid mornings

as orange, yellow, and red start forming.

Away from rushing bodies

and forgotten hobbies,

judging words, cruel thoughts,

and where violence is easily bought.

 

Dying from an incurable cause,

praising a faceless God -

burning homes and holding signs -

happiness is a long wait in line.

 

I have the antidote,

here, with me, in my rowboat.

And I know all the answers,

here, with me, written in chapters.

 

But I cannot share -

for not one person would care.

They beg for love and life,

but desire a tragedy with a knife.

 

“We want change,” they’re all crying,

but all of them are afraid of dying.

A different view

will lead you to the rare few.

 

Their serenity of death and torches -

lighting the way to millions of corpses. 

They won't listen to me -

I’m merely a flea.

 

A flea in a world of butterflies,

Confused and drinking cyanide.

No one would listen -

I have no way to make a decision.

 

My paintings, words, and books

mean nothing unless glorifying a crook.

They all love hate:

the plastic and the fake.

 

So if the cheaters, stealers, and liars

set the world on fire,

I will be on a rowboat out in the bay,

smoking my life away.