Foreskin: A poem

What am I doing

Writing stories hollow

While injustice prevails,

Outside my burrow.

Swartz, Dabholkar, Hitchens, Dey

Are dead and gone

The forces of evil

Are at a dawn.

And I, corny and cheesy

Talentless and unmindful

Comfortable in my environs

String together a rhyme.

All around me, better people

Suited better to tasks they’re given.

Who am I and what, my purpose?

Around people clearly more driven.

I’m the double, the foreskin, the appendix

Here because of privilege and means.

Thinking and mulling,

Taking forever.

The world owes us nothing,

Neither its fruits nor its luxuries

Neither its gifts nor its rewards,

For we are the sole purpose for our miseries.

If, reader, you stand at a precipice like mine,

Then may this become the singular rhyme;

That tips you over into the valley of action,

Overcoming your inertia like I’ve never done.