I'd Rather Read a Good Book

So much to complain about, The choice for what to rant about gets bigger every day, Just thinking about complaining is enough for my brain to put in a complaint of its own, With other body parts about to follow suit. The time it takes to process a complaint, Are grounds for another. Yet still injustice calls and every now and then my pen starts twitching, Or I hear that familiar dial-tone and once again I have failed, To calculate the odds of reaching ears that can distinguish a sour note, Or of finding a mouth with a tender pallet, So, I press forward sometimes in company, often a force of one. Exposure to the limelight does not make my face glow, There are other games I prefer to play. I get no thrill out of complaining, No sense of adventure calls me to come hither. Many times, I have complained after the fact, Or waited in vain for someone else to get off their couch. Truth be told, I'd rather read a good book. Yet the thought of losing the right to complain, And living in a world where nothing ever changes, Occasionally causes me to set my book aside and reach for my pen, So, I won't have to reach for my gun, As each day the price of not complaining goes up a notch.