Death Without Rhyme

(What if your whole "life" was contained within the space of a pair of parenthesis brackets? Everything you could have, would have, should have been, locked in the ice of that profoundly finite bit of off-white paper? And that was it. It. Nothing more, no memories, no dreams, no love. And out of all that infinite waste, you were handed a shovel. A dull shovel with no edge. And told by The Creator, The Higher Being, da Man, okay, that even though you are dust, pitiful, regrettable, awful and forgettable shit, you shall be allowed to dig, that, screw it, you might still have a voice, a strong voice, a formidable voice, but only if, and so long as, you use that voice, every last bit of that voice, to beat in the brains of your lost brothers and sisters to a bloody pulp if only to get them to just think about not soaking themselves in drugs, tell me you wouldn't pick up that shovel and start whacking. Sure, it would be so damn easy to just roll over and not even try to dig, because the ground's sheer impenetrable rock and the shovel sucks and you suck and everything sucks, but despite all that's happened, betrayal, death, the loss of everyone and everything, someone actually believes you can do it, so aren't you at least going to give it a shot? Hello? Because if you aren't going to or can't or won't (give it a shot) then do me a favor and just throw this thing in the garbage, delete it, drop another bar, another tab, smoke another big phat bowl, snort yourself a nice wavy line of your creepy drug of choice and do not even consider a single word I'm saying. Take the short cut, don't go to class, lose yourself in pure inebriation and fuck it all baby. Because this crap won't come near to touching you. And I cannot begin to help. But if you think you could give it a shot, would give it a shot, come along with me, because I'm taking you to a place that solves everything.)