I have made some things to last,
never brag about the past.
I have showed my love and work,
admitted my mistakes and quirk.

I have money but nobody knows,
paid the price, suffered some blows.
I don't complain, I'm just a man,
I'll do my part, whatever I can.

I learned to step aside,
learned and lost my pride.
I am an independent geezer
but I'll still forever do anything to please her.

When I give you the finger,
you lend me a hand, right?
When my eyes start to linger,
you can't start a fight.

Only I can, because I am
an entitled ****, a nice guy
a white ly-
ing, shirtless dancing,
dominant beta male.

My fragile ego's fresh
but my mouth smells stale.
I am so deeply priviliged,
I can not not expect success.
And I still dare to beg for someone
to help me get out of this mess.
When alone, I see I'm out of luck
because I am an entitled ****.

My father's boss is yelling
through his headphones.
He is telling this and that
while my father's head moans.

His pulse has visibly risen.
Still, working from home
is better than from prison,
where there is no place to roam.

Oh, the office, such a dull
and misconceiving place.
A bunch of rooms to mull
in, furthest from a warm embrace.

Oh, humanity misunderstood
how to make a man feel good.

The mere presence of these
present-day technologies
occupies a part of our attentional load.
What used to be akimbo mode
has turned into a one-way road
of loss of focus. So thus, as we divide,
division itself will stride
with the solidarity
between the person and the familiarities.

We have become used to using or abusing
the multi-tasking power and lost the
sufficiency of smelling just one flower.

People, asked to stay in, are drinking
Boston tea in the streets.
Eyes are tearing, mouth-covered
swearing represents the thinking
of the masses. The divide between
the classes, aware before or not,
is still only seen
because the cellphone shot
is shared and liked, awarded and rated.
What was never really loved has now
become hated. We're not really sure how
but, sick of all the lies, the nation's turning lawless as the president cries because twitter didn't find his tweets flawless.

I have dabbled in creative writing,
I have tried to play guitar,
I have smelled the exciting
smell of greatness
on the toes of those whose work
I can enjoy.

I am part of the crowd,
raising glasses,
I am part of the masses
and I sing along so loud.

As long as I don't ever get cocky,
in my humblest regards,
I'm allowed to keep quoting rocky
or choose whether I show my cards.

I question my behaving,
raise my brow
at my own caving
to the flaws I need to outgrow.

In my genes I carry sickness,
in my skull there is a thickness,
blocking the lowering of a rotten tendency,
my *** and skin dependency.

I have lots to learn,
lots to concern
on my path to being better.

I'll keep doing what I can.

That being said, this time we mourn
for the loss of life,
a loss, unnecessary,
making many weary.

I, inclined to keep it shut, found that
unjust, in ways like the killing that occurred.
The worries of the world, as (well as) its economy,
came crashing down on me,
when I read online about wars, riots, disease and
infectious poverty.

I close my eyes, imagine hunger,
imagine pain, imagine gain,
imagine loss or it impending,
as my nerve endings are sending
signals to above, to rain down on and sifle
through my spine.

The frisson is not the kind that makes my senses cheer,
I know, as I ask myself:
Where do we go from here?