I cannot help the world, if it cannot help itself,

When it takes offence at the most minor infraction,

While murder is committed by the ton and for the betterment of all,

While eyes are turned and guile is misdirected.

Rigidity in thinking only makes hypocrites of us,

Rendering us inept and incapable of being of use at all.

Forcing our inhibitions skyward, to a surface ill-prepared for such intrusion.

Fanatics go hand in hand, prepared to forsake good for better;

Where evil is an excuse rather than a reason to ask questions wisely;

And to perhaps draw those reigns close to swerve from the cliff’s edge,

Before the abyss becomes a waking memory in the history of humanity,

Again and again like a mantra too late.

I do not wish to help the world if it will not help itself;

Let the world grow up a little more and decide when it’s ready,

To face what it creates, eyes open, arms wide. To embrace all

That comes its way, no matter how rotten its flesh and misshapen its bones.

When it can say without remorse that it loves itself fully and is willing to play fair,

And the ire it once brewed is a memory no more.

I will not help the world if it discards trust as if it were disposable trash;

A commodity to be pushed from mind and sight.

I will only help me, the idealist dead, in service of a cause more worthy than fear,

Of reprisals from a world gone mad, insane by design, and desire to shine,

At all cost, and with no foresight to stop.

I divorce myself from you world, to turn inward and build a new world

Where I am not tried, judged and executed by you for no more than sharing a word.

You are no world at all when I turn my vision from you,

And my heart beats for you no more.

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