They

I scoff at their relationships and their gossiping.
And each time they fret over this or that deadline,
Or this or that television series,
I glance down from my pedestal,
And haughtily smile to myself.
Common people. So simple.
So naïve and simple.

And I turn back to my thoughts,
My unique, monumental thoughts,
The ones no one else could possibly have,
And I pretend to solve the problems of the world
As if its enigmas were solely mine.
As if I could make my mark.

And I think back to them.
And I remember: this is all for them,
All those countless cretins
Infesting the world beneath me.
And I wonder if it’s even worth the effort
To “help” them.

Am I missing something?
Why should I improve the economy
Or bring about “world peace”
Or whatever else they say they want?
Why can’t I just stay up here
On my very own pedestal?

But it gets lonely up here.

Sometimes I wonder if I got the directions wrong,
And up is actually down,
And I’m actually just puttering around in my own little pit
As they try to help me out.
And I’m just so ignorant
That I can’t tell they’re helping me,
So I just keep puttering around in my little pit.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

As if I’ve got anything more profound to say.