Thursday, September 27, 2012

Why I Write, Part x+149: Life

I assume strangers are degenerate mongoloid putzes,
Except the pretty ones.  They are well-formed, and otherwise...
I suppose I should know better.
I suppose I do, but whatever.

I take some time off of living to picture her with me
Though the only thing we'd ever find to do is disagree.
I wonder if that would be enough.  Some people like it.
I wonder if all attraction is contradiction.

I've heard there's nothing completely unworth reading,
and I find that nearly everything I read can teach me something,
Though some things fail alone, and need a combination
Like, for some reason, butt rock and literary criticism.

I'm on my feet with my hands in the air,
and aside from "the music," don't know how I got there.
It's strange that a song can have that effect
When only two lines of the lyrics connect.

I have no womb, but given long enough, I give words life.
I've no Hallows, but I give life new life when I write.
I have no meaning, no purpose, merely words.
I'm for when someone is bored.

Perhaps I've lived long enough
Or just thought too much about it.

No comments:

Post a Comment