Revolting against what or whom?
Constant gloom?
Too early tomb?
Too little room?
Some heavenly womb?
Too little love?
All the above.
I’m reminded of Wm. Blake’s “Book of Thel” in which a spirit about to be born looks down on Earth and sees nothing but suffering and mutual devouring. She chooses not to be born. I see the same, but had no such choice.
I look into the mirror.
My reflection claims it
Is not reflection, but is
Objective in my subjectivity.
This is not a poem;
It is a reflection.
I was created to think
In conundrums.
If–“life’s a bitch;
And then you die”–
If no one knows
The reason why–
Give me a hit
Of that good feel good.
Perhaps you could.
I do not understand
If all is planned
How I would–
How I should–
Give me a hint
Of that good feel good.
Perhaps you could.
Me too. I try to make sense of it all as if it were a machine generating greater wisdom via conflict/duality. I think fate is involved because things go wrong beyond my own causes and the strings of occurrences do not display pure randomness.