a broken piece of poetry

Everything is connected and so hard to understand. Everyone feels a certain way at a certain point, and change is simply the only constant. Of course it's an overanalyzation...but how can anything be determined? Anything at all. This is all some painted picture that stretches endlessly and absorbs itself in the material. Despite this, despite everything, people continue. Sense can be tried forever. Thought can stretch miles ahead. Some don't care. Some waste everything. Nothing is the same. Nothing stays the same. It seems so easy to understand, but not to accept.

Comfort is medicine. Medicine is value. Value is anything we want. Including several four letter words used to feel and pretend. Some of which tie into a concept of beauty. A concept of space, time, and life. How can everything apply to everything at once? It can't, and no one is not innocent in this. One day our heads will explode in the pondering, profane, endlessness of what we fight and keep close. So often we take for granted these pieces of matter and salt. So often we form a society only to burn it down and forget. I have forgotten. God is something. Love is something. Everything is something because everything that exists is perceivable. Somewhere someone is gazing into the sky after a thousandth of a fond memory, perplexed at the stable sight of a figment of this apparent universe.

We will not always chase these apparitions of questions, we will not always consider it a philosophy, but we will always be and we will always ask what this is for. Still standing tall are the lovers, the killers, the innocent and the rich facing each other against hallways that fade and shrink in the distance of their exstension. Still a kiss is shared somewhere at the edge of a certain death battered in turbulance and fire. No longer can we support days spent decaying the color of the lead paint on the walls. You look like a ghost so quiet and forever content in the idea that everything is what it is.

Something stands against this. A thought is an opinionated freedom of the mind that we all release like oxygen into the calm air. The ability to see straight through and beyond lays blind in us and everything. Humanity, a subtle piece of toilet humor. A hexagon taking it's pride as a room flooded in years. Look at me like you did...as the contrast of you beckons in the power of visualization.

A simple image. For now we can name it "something". Something moves. Something breathes, shifting it's skin like ocean waves. Something breaks. Something fucks. Something sees a "love". Something sees a "god". Something screams and throws up its arms in desperation, expecting this reality to expand and reveal itself to be a lifetime of childhood Christmas cookies. Yum! "I need you, you need me. Let's never let each other go." says the child. At an eerie pier something drowns to destroy itself. In a glass hallway something just seeks acceptance. In a crescent sea, a black rose grows and breeds a virus of a something.

This is only the comedy called you.