The Art of Being Calm

I see them laughing at the Earth, crying out in pain,

a gruesome looking horde, who think they control the rain,

the mirror shows sad story; says, I play a part in this,

in my quest to do some good, all I do is miss,

 

as lacking is my makeup, the mortality punchline,

with such duplicitous verdicts, I am not so sublime,

but, when I pay attention, I can see them make the hurt,

giving me the motive, to be a lord of some outbursts,

 

focused insufficiencies, have become the law,

to make a lucid nightmare, of which, I do abhor,

with white knuckles, red face, and my screaming song,

my perplex-ed tongue so busy, will rectify the wrong,

 

“Scuse me, you over there, can you please be cool!?”

I hear from a dullard, who enjoys being cruel,

“How can I be calm, if talking monkeys like to murder?

If you can’t answer that, then you shall live my burden!”

 

Hence, if Hell is what we make, perhaps I should relax,

as such “a change can’t happen”, is what’s taught in class,

so; to become a little happier, I could be less aware,

become the thing I hate: a person with no care,

 

thus, by definition, I discover unpleasantry,

I and you will find this, in our life’s dictionary:

become the blissful ignorant, to regulate the harm,

is the gloomy sordid meaning, of the art of being calm.