We are change of life

imagine life as a cosmic stew of which feeling speaks the only truth. all this talk, all this rationally is nothing without sensory interpretation. the “true” language of being is feeling. if life is but a chemical reaction, how can sensory interpretation be deemed unfit as rational? surely we can quantify precepts, but means cannot encompass the odds and ends. i trudge through a goop traversed by many others, with no more knowledge or understanding than those of “formal” training. we’ve created specific words, although none can contain me. how can we be expected to use a language to speak standards, when we are anything but sameness? We are constantly changing, and will forever be changing, as long as life exists. life is a change otherwise it would be death.

Get a life, or at least another one.

being alive,
how does this phrase,
get a life,
apply as an insult?
to be honest,
i’m confused.
when i’m living a life,
how am i to
get another one?
i don’t have
more than one,
unless i’m schizophrenic.
even so, i’m still bound
by one consistent life.
i might unconsciously
partition my being,
but we leech off
the same being.
in the end,
our variation is
but discrepancy in stability.

Cross-walk around

have you ever cross-walked?
i know i haven’t.
i think i’ve crawled,
walked, maybe even
criss-crossed,
but cross-walk?
i’ve walked across
a cross, although
not on Jesus’
i don’t need to be religious
to respect their idols.
i figure this kind of
walk would prove cumbersome,
much like the word,
cumbersome.
such a mouthful,
which i don’t think
you’d want when
doing a cross-walk.

Sold to feel the same in another way

should i be trying for something?
am i trying to be or am i just trying?
creation feels contrived regardless
of my feeling during creating.
i lokk upon what i’ve created
as being stolen, but then again,
who wants to steal shit?
maybe a scatologist?
but i don’t suppose
there are many out there
in search of a shit
i’ve regurgitated.
yes, i’ve puked up shit,
but so have many others.
they just so happen
to market their vomit
as priceless experience.
it’s a damned shame
i’ve fallen for experience
felt in another way.

Dying as i have lived

do you know what you’re doing? i wish i could say yes, but no, no i do not. wait, what am i talking about? of course i know what i’m doing: i’m living. surely we all have a different opinion on what qualifies as living, but for me, as long as you’re breathing, you’re living. i know many would argue against this fact, but technically, to me at least, it seems like a self evident truth. now, what you do while you’re breathing, that’s a whole other story. maybe that’s what people mean by the statement, “get a life.” if it was like Mario world, heck, i would collect the hell out of those green 1 up mushrooms, but since this is not video game land, i’ll just live within myself. it’s hard to understand others when one cannot understand oneself. i seem to like things and not like things and so do other, yet i can’t find someone of which makes me feel wholly similar or comfortable. i might divulge personality to another, but that is in hopes to find reciprocation. alas, i’m left alone and wanting. for what, i cannot comprehend, nor does another. alone i was born, and alone i shall die. half knowing myself and those of whom i consorted with.

Why do you write shit?

i write shit because it’s all i know.
i’m sure, if i knew more, it’d still be shit.
then again, that depends on who’s looking.
being art and it’s subjectivity,
anything created has the
potential of being good, or shit.
i make shit because
like my body,
i need to release waste.
i’d sooner be hated
than falsely appreciated.
my shit may sink,
but to whose nose?
we should all continue to
make because it is a source
of inspiration to another.
we all work off the same
shit pile, but we see it
in a slightly different way.
let us plug the toilets,
and defecate on the floor.
maybe then others
will come to recognize
shit from actual shit.