A muddled mess of a man
brings himself back to life.
Society wants his misery
for the sake of artistry.
Industry would take him,
make him militant.
Brace him for a pocket full
-then pilfer his passion
through the subtle push of suffering.
Twisting him till he's braided
into industry and society,
there is no escape.
He is a strand of industrial elbow grease,
valued by no venture handed to him.
As he searches for himself,
fulfillment will scarce fall into industry.
A muddled mess of a man has no value,
he is disposable,
dragging himself around a dead end job.
