Output is thin, work is slow, and do you really want to be here?
In non-square land where the winds sometimes never blow?
Do you really want to be here where time is ripe with thoughts that never stop?
Is it really lovely, or beautiful, or profound, or fucked up?
Do you really want to be here where you’re continuously fighting for rewards that will never come?
It’s not that romantic when the cliché’s worn out of its meaning.
Do you really want to be here among us unproductive, useless desperate people?
Does this appeal to some gland in your being that you choose to stick around,
Are you depraved or are you, just searching?
Do you want to be touched, not out of desperation, but out of indulgence?
Do you want to have to think each time of the consequences of what you did, are going to do,
(Sometimes it can be quite funny)
If you have a heart that warms up with subtleties, then are you thick skinned and prepared to be embarrassed?
Do you really want to be here?
What is this argument that I’m making?
Dragging you into the trench of my own existence…
The title draws from a line from one of William Blake’s poems.