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.
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