So maybe,
we are inherently evil and talking
in those gruesome hateful subliminal messages
resulting in a massacre of life
so we painted morals, emotions, feelings, religion
onto it
becoming insincere twits
trying to be what we are not
innately gaining insecurity
from fear of dying ourselves
that we stop others
killing our youth of perception
of existence becoming a 100m spring from decay
never being able to do it
in such a small amount of time
as to deny decay
towards ceasing this endless battle
of questions driving us on
towards wondering
if I’ve said enough,
read enough,
met enough,
cried enough,
expressed enough,
lived enough
not to need to write
out of here
like Michelangelo painted the ceiling out
of his commitment to the pope
demanding social initiative
to keep with the mediocrity
and the altruism of genius
being something you need
to understand
so that you can classify yourself one
in your small slice of the world
weighing on you as Atlas
is the essence of Freud
not being able to figure
out why
it bugged us so much
to being annoyed by
complexities fixating themselves
in eccentricity driving us on
to find balance in not caring
who you are
when normal in yourself
wandering about yourself
with binoculars and pens
scarring the resonance of the treadmill
of time transporting me away
from these dead legs
I get from reading.