The Purveyor Of Novelty And Nonsense

I am a merchant who fills this land with the novelty and nonsense that withers wills.

My struggle is to keep with what country demands, and family deserves.

I put the bread in the mouths of my best and last hope that this name earns honor.

It will be the first.

I am a purveyor of bullshit and landfill, and broken dreams.

Oh look how I've made an inheritance of others' ideas.

Most of which should not have left their lips.

I fear that my usefulness has expired.

Yet you won't let me go.

I am in a race to produce things to buy to eat things to make more things.

I don't have the tools to withdraw myself.

We are not hearty, we are usually fallen ill.

Is it the tough conversations that warrant our stay?

See I am powerless and take no pleasure in hard battles of words won.

But is this my story?

I struggle to love right here, the shadows that pass me by.

Why should I leave my land?

I question the motives of those I should prop up on my shoulders and carry; but not my own at my time.

I will not leave my land.