It seems I’m always trying to write the greatest poem

The world has ever seen

Yet to me that is quite ironically impossible

When I know what nothing means


This postmodern world is a quagmire

Of needs and wants and thoughts

But no one knows the reason

Why for anything at all we’ve sought


I’m often trying to tap into beauty

In a place where it’s said not to exist

A place where cold space has the answers

A place of hard, brutal fists


I’m not trying to dry and depress you

I’m not trying to give you despair

But if there is no known standard of beauty

Then there is not anything, anywhere, there


And what sort of world is that?

What sort of place would that be?

It almost makes sense to ignore the facts

And let imagination set us free


I know that all seems irrational

But what the heck else is art for?

For if there is no existence of beauty

Then what ever is there here to live for?


Love can list a thousand things….




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s