My pessimist's working definition of life
Is waking up again and feeling the process of dying,
and perhaps the physical experience is enough
On the days my legs don't move or I cough up a lung,
But I'm intrigued by pscycho-socio-cultural death,
When every conversation veers away from your interests,
You can't be sure where one new song starts and the last ends,
and your life is full of computers that tell you what your friends
Did, and say that you should do that, too.
I may like my friends,but I am not like them.
Perhaps is really my breed that is dying.
Perhaps, like history and racist regionalism,
We shall rise again.
No comments:
Post a Comment