this wheel

I’m a bad man, sit on a tin can,
make a plan without standing for anything,
pretend to care, but in my heart of hearts
am empty, easily pushed over, a bobblehead

When I die and my soul takes flight
I will disappear into the night
and be reborn an ant,
what I should have been to begin with,
crushed under heel, a common pest

After I have lived, however briefly, in that army
I will learn discipline, come back a true warrior,
not a talker, not an idea man

Why do you think otherwise?
What gives you any sort of confidence?
What have I done to deserve that respect and responsibility?

I am nothing, less than nothing,
because I pretend to be something,
build myself up, but you will find out the truth
It’s an elaborate fiction

I am a lost soul, a child deeply flawed
sawed in two by the magician
who recognized my slight of hand
and took matters into his own hands

Look here

Tell my children their father was a pest
who died like all the rest, whose greatest blessing
was the moment he finally confessed to his utter worthlessness,
who sat on a mountainside but learned nothing,
studied the dharma only to forget every word,
an absurdity, a laugh a minute, a true fucking turd

I hate myself, and my only respite is to love you,
but how can I love you when I hate myself

Stuck like a hamster on this wheel
spinning in contradiction, yet I know it’s fiction
I am not good, not bad, sad as fuck, its true,
but that will pass and another day will have been lost
to this sad story