The Cycle

I don’t get people.

How they hang around, wasting their lives,
Shunning themselves, chasing after precious lies,
Yet they are content
Not bothering to ask why,
Just killing time till their certain demise.

Do people actually think this way?
Can they not notice? It boggles my mind.
Or are they simply faking it?
To fake live?
And fake smile?

Yet maybe this is truth
And it’s just me, a screw loose.
Perhaps I am weird, foolish, depressed,
Caught up in myself, a squandered gem,
A cause lost in lines and tales divine, drowned
Within waves of sacred illusion
And never to be found.

I still don’t get how people are not depressed.

As I don’t know why they cannot embrace
Or kiss or stare, or breathe freely
With nature’s air, through each other’s lungs,
If only for love,
Or to not feel so lonely, in a lonesome world
Of subjugation and strange
For contact is beautiful, and we are utterly repulsed
By beauty unfiltered—all virgins to it,
All ugly without it.

And I don’t get the people so cruel
To those others, when they gaze into their eyes.
Can they not see? Are they not spellbound?
The light that shines within, and the music that plays without,
Our being lies infinitely deeper, and the light never goes out,
For the melody too lives on in harmonious vibration, finely tuned
To the miracles of life, hidden in plain view.
We play every string—an unending croon,
A symphony forgotten.

But there are a lot of cruel people in this world.

I love these people,
They are expressions of myself!
Hate rests within.
Love is all around.

And I cannot understand how people live
When they cannot love, and are blind to themselves
While they are forced through the eyes of others.
Their life one long running gag—no time to breathe
Or find the key to recognition, they always forget
When through their eyes they cannot see,
And it is beyond me.

As nothing is beyond them.

Yet there are still all those people
Who gaze up, gaping at their stars which flicker inside,
Then look back down, and realize their shoelace is untied,
So they bend to the ground, and get shit on by a white dove
Flying high, singing a fine tune, who stares freely from above,
Laughing hard, thinking we are quite peculiar.

Is this all meaningless? I must question,

For I do not know where people go
When they close their eyes till the breath of the morning.
Reborn with the sun, reclaimed in time’s hold,
They get out of bed to drink some black coffee
Just to piss it all away!
What a dark world,
It’s preferable to sleep without the light of the day.

And I do not see how we even exist
When we are already dead.
A perpetual being, a collective dream
Of unconscious dreamers, where time scolds our folly,
And the dollar’s sway turns us hollow, thrown
Through meaningful disarray—a strife so vital,
As fear seems a precondition for human life,
But it is not living.

Do you fear yourself
When you look into a mirror?
Would you run from your shadows,
And freeze at your breath?

I don’t get us.
I don’t get he.
I don’t get them, and I don’t get she.
I don’t get I, and I don’t get me—
Neither do you!
Yet we are all together.

Still here I am:
An animal ashamed.
Grabbing my crotch in a naked daze,
Eating my onion rings
Dipped in thick white mayonnaise,
It is not very healthy.

And I’m scared and I’m lonely.

My arteries will clog,
And we’ll live and we’ll die
And we’re born again, deathly afraid
Of everyone around, of our own selves
Caged up and locked in unwillingly,
Entombed in an eternal daydream,
Only to write pompous poetry
About fear and confusion.

The cycle repeats itself.

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