Pity is the inability to pull the trigger

You want pity by writing it like hackneed graffiti
On a street corner where you hang your dirty laundry
To dry and mildew as if to prove you made an effort
At cleaning things up for once.

A thin line between a cry for help etched in chalk
To trace the marring caused by desperate fingernails
Madly gouging at the blackboard to get out and let out
Instead of holding it in to furment like a mason jar moonshine.

You want help, yet you refuse to move in the right direction
If everything is wrong and broken, why not fix it?
Because you can't fix yourself if you don't have the proper tools
Or the power outlet to recharge your self-loathing drill press and table saw.

Help? Here it is, it's always been there, darting in and out of your sight
Pity? Find it elsewhere instead of exploiting yourself and others true pain
Through written verse and poser politics found in marble bound notebooks
That masquerade as your diary or deep thought chasm.

If life really isn't worth living, then do something about it with action
Positive, negative, neutral? Get it on or get going like a stubborn mule
Being forced to carry a heavy load, a bundle called LIFE, everyone's packing it
It all depends on if you got the guts to use what everyone is given.

Help? Ask with open hands, head, heart, and drop that anguish loaded gun
Pity? Pull the trigger and make room for those who deserve it.