I don’t want to be the name on your next bleeding heart law.
I refuse to stand idly by as your medusaec heads echo empty apologies.
My well is dry and the buckets keep coming. The neon sign says closed but your blind eyes keep tugging.
No law is finite, no job description complete, your lack of knowledge is not lost on me.
I’m used to falling through the cracks, my spelunking gear worn from traversing bureaucratic hacks.
Keep breathing these fumes and ignoring my story. Pass me down from front to back, drop me where you want me.
I didn’t come this far and lose it all, to give up on everything and I was fighting for.
Bruised, tattered, torn; my thick will can take it. Victim I may be but play it I won’t, I’m standing my ground and winning this round.
I’m coming for these geriatric laws, ascending safely from the hands of men; past the time of too late, for me, for them, for everyone.
I won’t wait for posthumous victory, with my name adorning pulpous, political infidelities. You can’t have my widow to warm the seat, to smile and wave, like congressional meat.