SUCKY POETS SOCIETY

just waiting
waiting for it all to make sense
trying to
explain to myself
(again and again)
what is happening
around me
is normal, logical, the most probable
given the conditions and the course of action chosen
the future is warped and past is kinda bloated
present is stretched infinitely thinly over space
does my existence take place here, or somewhere else
inside this computer, on my record files in their books?
inside my mind?
is my existence what i feel and i think?
what if i dont feel and i dont think ?
i dont exist anymore?
is my existence what others perceive of me?
what they make me out to be?
can i make myself disappear?
not exist?
invisible?
inwardly? outwardly?
fade away
a white heron on the green grass
drizzle
ravens
the rain
bridges burning
the embers
yellow glow
will turn to ash
we’re all waiting
to turn to ash
all this constant struggle
lose and gain
to change
how we are perceived
by others
By ourselves
i dont give a fuck