Screams from the gutter
I sit here sometimes.
Just watching the sky turn into a masterpiece
of pinks and golds.
And honestly?
It hits so hard.
But it’s crushing, too.
Knowing how fast it all fades away.
Fleeting.
I look around and wonder
if I am the only one who actually noticed.
My mind goes too deep.
A single line from a poem can haunt me for days.
Keats said the poetry of earth is never dead,
but the world is just so noisy.
Mechanical.
I tried bringing up Camus.
I tried talking about Dostoyevsky.
People looked at me like I had three heads.
It’s hard to find someone who wants to go there with you.
Who doesn't mind losing track of time
in a discussion about purpose.
Isolated.
But the world feels a little less lonely
when someone else sees the poetry.
Oscar said we're all in the gutter,
but some of us are looking at the stars.
So if you're out there.
If you appreciate a good existential ramble.
Let's talk.
I'm looking for the gazer.
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