Poets ask the questions.

“Just be thankful to be alive,” I’m sure he was told. Time and time again. By friends. Family. Churchians.

Nah, man.

There is way more to think through while I’m thankful to be alive.

There is no just.

There’s more. Always more. Just is way overused. It minimizes and reduces.

But I get it. Let the poets do the thinking.

It’d be cool if they could rhyme though.