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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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