For fanfare attention, we become something. Until we bleed it all away to become nothing. The ground soaks us all up, but never enough will there be to fill its commodious cups. How tragic, romantic. Now wait just a minute! I’ve had enough. Just give up, move on. What else?
Each blood cell lives 120 days. Together, 7% of my weight. Impressive, but not great. There would be a drain where everything escapes. Turned inside out, organs flailing about. "Put your self together, man!" They shout. "You can’t do that." Keep it all together and Band-Aid it with a smile on your mouth.
2.7 pints and it’s transfusion, merging with the genetic mission of someone else. At least I know it won't run cold, the hot-blooded you felt. So why do I feel so small, like I can’t even talk to you at all? No tolerance for negativity or suicidal thought. Unless it’s for someone you admire. Then you will make the exception to help your complexion, for fear I will set your house on fire.
And they all watch, like popcorn-munching cops. Envious until the image flops, becoming nothing more than a faint projection. They’ll entertain the erection with no emotional connection. No blood would be spilled and voids would be filled. And like the rest of us, they’ll reach a point of stagnation. And become nothing.
… Taking no responsibility, they’ll blame a devil inside of me while a murder of crows dance around.