Dependency

I grow none of the food I eat,and the few scraggly leaves I do,
well, someone else bred the seeds,
perfected them,
handed them down through history's dirt
while I fumbled with watering cans.

My clothes?
Not a stitch by my own hand.
I wear the ghosts of tailors,
the sweat of factories,
the nameless work of thousands.
And here I am,
thinking a good jacket makes the man.

I speak a language I didn’t shape,
didn’t chisel from stone or forge in fire.
It’s all borrowed sounds,
patched-up metaphors,
the voice of the species whispering
through my throat.

Math? Forget it.
I didn’t invent it,
just follow it around like a loyal dog.
Numbers and theories
crafted by minds
that long since left the building.

I’m shielded by laws,
freedoms, the great invisible nets
woven by thinkers,
arguers, fighters, and fools.
I enforce none of it,
just float on the raft
of their sacrifices.

The music moves me,
a melody carved from air by strangers,
pianos weeping, guitars screaming,
voices haunting the silence.
None of it mine,
but God, it feels like it.

When my body broke,
I had no answers,
no ancient healing rites,
no magic hands.
Doctors bent over me,
did what they could—
their brilliance, not mine.

The machines I type on,
the code I wrangle—
all born of sparks I didn’t ignite.
Transistors, microprocessors,
the endless symphony of innovation,
a genius beyond my grasp.

And yes, some of us are bastards.
Petty, small-minded, cruel.
But look at us—
a species so magnificent
it’s almost ridiculous.
We build cities from dust,
write books that crack the soul,
paint the heavens
in oils and light.
We’ve created things
no one mind can hold,
wonders stacked upon wonders,
a cosmic joke
we can’t stop telling.

And despite it all,
despite the ones who make me want
to walk into the ocean,
I love us.
The dead, the living,
the screw-ups, the saints.
I owe them my life,
my joy,
and every borrowed thing
that keeps me breathing.