It amazes me.
The want.
The question asking where does it come from.
The addict calls it their disease.
Others say their downfall.
The addict is right.
Escape it somehow someday as it surrounds you.
Sober addicts.
Modern day philosophers.
Some don't speak on milk crates.
Some do.
Listen if you hear their voices in the wind.
They sing above our heads in the street.
Belting out a truth.
It can lead you momentarily.
If you dare, let it take you to the place.
And hopes you heave the steps before you.
This truth comes with a tribe to lead.
A herd is always stronger.
The heard indeed.
It amazes me.
The want.
This question asking where does it come from.
It's everything you can't control. Pushing you towards your expertise.
Your talent at escaping.
The hatch to grab and swing yourself all cozy in a hutch.
This hutch is where all things stand still and fade what's rotten from your gut.
Fade what's shameful from your head.
A pressure released in every way but resolve or truth and hardly ever cozy.
Resolve is left to burn in the back where you won't feel it's heat.
No not where you sit deep in the hutch, there is no heat there.
The clock in there it tells no time.
Eventually you'll grab the hatch.
You'll pop back out from whence you came your fraudulent freshness beaming.
You seek the nothingness of what you now pretend to be resolve.
Yet resolve was left untouched.
Left to burn. It never stops.
Gather it up while it smolders.
Your hands burn. All sorts of pain.
And carry this burden back out in the open where you did not dare to follow the voices,
Those voices in the wind.
Only the want.
The fool has no worries.
The hatch awaits once again.
You will be stricken once more no doubt.
It amazes me.
The want.
We are lucky to have our new philosophers for they never cease in empathy.
They wear so many hats these friends.
Air out your pain in the open and not inside your hutch.
Heal your burns.
Stay with the herd.
The heard indeed.
It amazes me.
The want.