Believing emptiness taught.

excuse me,
let’s make this easier,
more convenient.
let’s remove life,
and substitute it
with the automated.
heck, i’m just a response.
the science of
who, what, where, why and when
of me is public domain.
this causes that,
so what am I?
as far as i know,
i’m a disposable response
whose weight
is less than
what is capable.
that’s good right?
to make a profit,
the baseline must be
less than that of proposed.
i express a constructed distress,
one of which seems new.
it may be new to me,
but to those will experience
call bullshit.
excuse my inexperience,
but i didn’t know someone
was orchestrating this whole ordeal.
why bother?
to me, it seems juvenile
and malicious.
we fight amongst ourselves
knowing, upon personal reflection,
this all to be meaningless.
i complain at what i grasp at
because it’s something
that is not there.
how i continuously lead myself
to believe in what’s not there.

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Just noticed i’ve got a gun.

i’ve got a gun.
although, i’m not sure whose it is.
i notice everyone around me
carry guns, presumably theirs.
i’m not sure if they use it,
or how they use it,
or even what they load it with?
where do they find their ammunition?
does someone give it to them,
do they steal it, or
do they buy it?
i see them carry
their guns to work,
to schools, to restaurants,
while driving in traffic,
during Sunday mass,
even on family vacation.
shots can be heard
in exchange for
power, money, ideals, beliefs.
since when did we all have guns
and the thought that because
we have one, we should use it?
all i know is,
i’ve got a gun.
one day i’ll shoot.
until then,
i’ll stick to using
blanks.

Money loves lowest common denominator

don’t ask me to love you.
it’s not that i can’t,
it’s that i don’t.
i gave you what i could,
but you told me it wasn’t enough.
you needed more.
i’ve come to realize,
you needed more.
money was your barometer,
and it was your plan.
i’m a stooge,
and who better to provide you with easy money,
than those who will work for you.
you say you “love” me but you
only love the money.
when the money stops,
so does the love.
sadly, i now have to think of
love as a comodity.

4 nickels

On the table they lay, patiently awaiting expenditure. To whom will I belong to now? Exchanged for a relative, I suppose, one who has come for a temporary visit. Until next time comes, of course, bearing with it the fine of life. Indeed a fine, but between relatives, it all seems fine. Passing off the buck for some change doesn’t help.