 I am a merchant who fills this land with the novelty and nonsese that withers wills.
My struggle is to keep with what country demands, and family deserves.
I put the bread in the mouths of my best and last hope that this name earns honor.
It will be the first.
I am a purveyor of bullshit and landfill, and broken dreams.
Oh look how I've made an inheritance of others' ideas.
Most of which should not have left their lips.
I fear that my usefulness has expired.
Yet you won't let me go.
I am in a race to produce things to buy to eat things to make more things.
I don't have the tools to withdraw myself.
We are not hearty, we are usually fallen ill.
Is it the tough conversations that warrant our stay?
See I am powerless and take no pleasure in hard battles of words won.
But is this my story?
I struggle to love right here, the shadows that pass me by.
Why should I leave my land?
I question the motives of those I should prop up on my shoulders and carry; but not my own at ny time.
I will not leave my land.
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