Talking About Problems

I would not inherit garbage
For I, too, am not insanitary.
And even those that are, insane
Are not to be blamed for junk jeans
Transcripted and weaved improperly

It is we that are insane by thinking
We perhaps are above such monstrosity
As simply wearing holey jeans.
But I'm left wondering
How to swim apart from all the complexity of worlds
When problems are garbage.
And problems have overwhelmed even the soundest minds.
Unless we call for help, and with help
Some still suffer in silence, unknowingly
Ignorant
        To the fact
               Their problem isn't real.
That it is the narrative by garbage,
             Telling them its problems.
And so slowly inner ear turns gold into quartz
     Till it is apparent, that is what happened
            And it is quartz that is our dirt
                     It is our beach we sun on
      And it is the bones of the world
Yes, this digital world, too.

Which all makes me think it is not getting dirty that worries us.
      But the angels and demons that are playing there, too.
      In the dirt, and the problems, and the garbage pinning someone
      For so long, they lose use of legs or arms or what-have-you
And have been eating whatever they could for a great lack
      Of a square meal in life.

It happens, the fish are dying
From eating that plastic you use to live a modern life.
But not your plastic, don't worry be happy
And live on to upcycle all the Williams Mcdonough in the world
to survive... beyond outrage of our problems.