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.
Copyright © Michael Benkhen | Year Posted 2010
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