This Is Not An Essay

I wanted to write an essay but an essay's just no fun, for poetry and prose are my only number one. I sadden up the rhetoric and I stiffen up my mood because if I were homeless and I died, I'd be buried in the nude. I'd have my corpse dumped in a landfill to rot with no respect. I am not a human being, what can one expect? The people with a dollar get a gravestone and a flower, with picturesque scenery and a mob of crying citizenry. What would I get if I were homeless, but buzzards buzzing hungrily. When did the human line diverge to separate one person from next in ways so absurd? When did paper start to personify the human being? Should I open up my wallet and talk to a piece of paper? Do George or Abe have words of wisdom from beyond the grave, channeled by green ink on paper? I highly doubt it but I've been proven wrong before. All the more, dying while homeless is about as important as a dog's feces and is scooped up with a shovel in the night. Shouldn't human beings get more respect then that? A fancy body bag, a few words of kindness from the heart, perhaps a prayer. They just dump you in a hole as if you were never there. Proof that this human system wasn't built with humans in mind, It was built with objects in mind. Objects rule the world and we are it's paupers, cavorting ignorantly into our graves...in a giant landfill.