What Life Means To Me

Life means I can talk to my friends and others, When the untravelled sea fills with brothers, Pleasure rushes the uninhabited areas we just don't sail, And when we semiotically emit our meaning, we will prevail; Freedom rings with resonance resounding and pervasive, No need for more traditional others to be abrasive, No bears or wolves, no chides, jibes, and no probes obtrusive, Your identity is your construct, your speech is conclusive. And my books! Alas my books. They proffer so such contentment, A breadth of knowledge with no suggestions delinquent, Nor are there any accusers to accost, My mind and spirit which upon some can be lost, Possibilities endless, bringing depth of character, They glint and glide, swimming in grammar; Multiple amounts of information councel my hesitation, Brimming particulars restrain inhibition. But oh my computer: How elegant is she! Believing in my easy registrations as well as my errors to be; Such possibilities, moulded so neatly into my space, Without the communal glare of uniformity’s trace; Personalised desktop, memory and input method, It accepts me unquestioned with no staff or flogging rod; I program to set the user interface alight, With the functionality and procedures of the user’s plight. However, I can also give myself my own system, Personal software from my own inclination; Knowing some designers do not have in hand, The shortcuts that only I seem to understand; A software engineer’s god complex should not surface, The digital space is a privilege to influence, place; I love determining the screen and its sounds, Where freedom of knowledge and data abound. But the gift of poetry delights and ignites, Hurtful regressions lull in its sight; Its credibility only ever stoops to concede, That only your introversion may expression impede; Language caressed, dignity nursed, You never need to be at all reimbursed; Its haters are silent for fear of rebuke, As truth, imagination and love are its hook.