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The whole truth 
and nothing but the fu(king truth
That laws, and math, only help solve 
local temporary problems, 
All of which fall way short 
on the infinite needs scale
were we rely on estimates, theories, 
and other manmade truths 
 
Still here we are, 
alone on a goldilocks planet
All 8 billion of us milling around, 
living our lives
guaranteed nothing
other than this moment 
and whatever came before 
To think otherwise 
would be presumptuously human
 
As for choice is there really any 
other than try feed ourselves
and sate the instinct to survive and thrive 

We are a civilisation built on
disparate societal values and creeds
Each day is an imperceptible handover 
from one generation to the next, 
with no guarantee they’ll do a better job 
 
But the real problem is not truth,
It’s why!
Why anything at all,
Why life
Why the fu(k am I asking these questions
I’m apostate, No!
I have little faith, No!
I am honest, No!
A nihilist, No
It’s because I have a sentient,
curious, unapologetic mind
that compels me to ask why!
 
Sometimes I think
i’d be better off a sponge 
floating in crystal clear turquoise balmy oceans 
Soaking up oblivious unintelligible surroundings 
Indifferent to mortality and the universe,
popping off a few buds every once in a while, 
or whatever sponges 
brainlessly do to further their species 

Such basic life is so very tempting 
but just doesn’t sit right 
Never to experience love 
however fleeting, 
Never to endure pain 
However crushing,
Never to feel like throwing in the towel, 
Even if just to mop blood 
off the floor like a sponge 

See, I’ve had moments 
unimaginably beautiful,
Alongside unconscionably awful ones,
Moments so real 
they can’t have been synthesised 
by any stretch of any imagination 

I believe a God or the universe 
created me as a vessel of interpretation 
to perceive itself 
from my unique perspective 
Well not unique per se,
more a personalised handicapped view 

I am nothing and everything
in the grand scheme of things 
No more! No less!
One that uses swear words 
language you may not like,
yet clearly understand

The weirdest part is not the feeling 
I’ve written this fu(ked up poem 
in previous carnations 
It’s my swearing 
just seems to be getting worse 

By
David Kavanagh
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