Will my passion bear fruit?

What is my actual worth,
My value, my purpose planned since birth?
My tattered ends are my content barometer,
Not all linked to society’s thermometer.
How many Scovilles do I show to satisfy?
My Richter scale cripples me and wants to make me cry.
Lacuna exposed, peace ends with a quake,
I set my stalled transparency, the Judges they awake.
Hungry explorers, horizons to consume,
Our historic revered men, who sang iconic tunes.
Measured adventures in their museumed skiffs,
No deluded followers stumbling over cliffs.
I search my engine, with the word ‘influence’,
And find the vacuous, believing their effluence.
No ‘thumbs-up’ or ‘likes’ on parchment by quill,
Today’s reality makes me so ill.
Hide yourself, my warriors of right?
Your authentic imperfection they will smear and smite.
Progress dogged by the feckless few,
As the vilified are lined up and veiled by the queued.
My heart expands for the forgotten small voice,
Then empties as they dance on my chest and rejoice.
My past unpeeled, no bearing to my now!
No real relevance as I strain up to the clouds.
A paradox we face, preconceptions all fermented,
Perfect imperfections persistently presented.
Choking on the world’s inspirational quotations,
Yet the masses are suspicious of the positive intentions.
Many need to stop feeding their revenge in,
By ceasing the searches in a pre-conditioned engine.
Our addiction cannot become a symptomless pain,
Fed by the Instant-Gram, of judicious cocaine?
Re-weave the fabric, darn the holes and fill your delf,
The ease of the fix is to simplify your shelf.
Treble-clefs to feed our souls and colours to fill the grey,
And influence the poets to help them seize the day.
(Copyright 2019) Pedro BatPoet