I wish that things were simple, but they’re not.
For life is like a test, a spelling bee:
With one mistake, we see our fortunes fall,
And slump back down to rue our own disgrace.

Or maybe, we’re delusional. That works.
The world is always someone else’s fault:
As stand there, our rectitude intact,
Among the ruins enemies create.

Or we can be aggressive in our ire:
And reach and grasp and grab and steal and take
Whatever we might hanker for, or want,
And maybe think, “Well, circumstance be damned.”

For we can wanton lust, or wanton hate,
And we can take our time or run around,
And try to make thinks simple for our minds
By falsifying evidence of eyes.

I wish that things were simple, but they’re not.
The good and bad are mixed up in this world,
And it is hard to separate them here:
All we can do is see things
As they are