When the world is ****
People are quick to place blame;
"You caused this!" They exclaim.

For centuries small weights accumulate:
Every time someone had to do something they didn't appreciate.
Every time someone lost something that can't be replaced.

My back accepts their momentary complaints.
Their discomfort soon passes or they find another distraction;
However it has yet to leave me.

If I decided things would be this way,
If a **** world is the product of all my decisions,
Then as a creator did I make a mistake?

In creating you, that is.