Just a poem I've been working on for a while. Comments would be greatly appreciated. :)
Life flows and bends and twists and sends you all upon its way,
But nothing more can ever last for forever and a day.
So why do we waste the life we’re given, trying to be perfect?
We have our idealisms,
We have our realisms
We even have our IKEAisms
Yet these are just defects.
Infinite wealth can never be achieved,
So instead, it seems, that men become thieves,
Or decide against it all and end their lives,
For a few seconds of fame or the blade of a knife.
We are but a shadow of our former selves,
We live life only by the books on our shelves.
You say you want a revolution?
Well you’re already in one, son.
We are the hope of a thought, and the thought of a hope.
And we burden ourselves and expect others to cope,
40 days of darkness, 30 days of night.
We are pampering ourselves to death.
For the thrill of the fight.
We emerge from our cocoons, our houses,
As beautiful beings, with our arsenic laced make up, and our thousand pound blouses,
We are nothing more than consumers,
Constantly gorging ourselves, mere losers,
To the grander scheme, the light, the dream,
The hope that nothing is as it seems,
And nothing more than this, we die,
And hope others for us, will cry,
And still we ask ourselves why?
Is there a God? A fate? A heaven?
Is thirteen unlucky, or is it seven?
It’s just a number after all, who thought of this? Who made this call?
Who said, “This is right or this wrong. This is Spring and this is Fall.”
Society? The nations? The mind that guides the man?
For we are the ones to break the rules, and we are the ones who can.
We are a superstitious bunch, guided as it may,
And this is that, and that is this, until our final day.