Who am I to suffer?
Who am I to cry?
Who am I to weep for the rain that passes by?
“There’s war upon us darling!
Who are you to wish upon the will to die?”
And who am I at all?
Who am I to dare?
How could I be so callous,
So self-centered to despair?
There’s suffering in Detroit,
There’s children whose plates are bare.
I have a roof, a job,
Some water! Oh how could I dare?
Suffering is labeled.
It’s a commodity you see,
Since there is always someone worse off than me.
Such things of course matter to those who have the mind.
They like to spout about “how could you be so blind.”
The funny thing about it though,
Is madness does not care.
It will take the suffering and magnify it,
Like a flare.
Resist the deepest sludge,
Go ahead, struggle in it,
Feel it sap away your life
And tell me if you’re in it.
Well who are you to suffer?
Who are you to bleed?
Who are you to struggle or determine another’s weeds?
Who are you to codify what counts and what does not?
Can you prove there is a proper way to suffer
And what is not?