It seems to me that love does not exist.
Just a word written, spoken and inflated.
People believe it and get thrust forward
into the heart of a fellow being,
into the man of a heartless body.

It seems to be that hate does exist.
It jolts our standing onto four legs,
and so we breed the language of disgust.
To be on top, above the freezing heart of a fellow being,
above the man of a vindictive nature.

It seems to me that I do not know what I write,
just spurts of energy bursting onto the page.
But one day the pages will soar,
And when we die they will die too,
when we die they will be forgotten.

It seems to be that a lonely one thinks better,
like Dylan Thomas in his shed.
Consuming his alcohol to bewilder a fellow being.
loneliness corrupts the mind, we think to much..
We think to be perturbed, with an extreme selfish intent.

It seems to me that I am not worthy.
I can’t stand with people who are,
and they can’t learn to stand with me.
Separated at birth the human race,
but forced to live in the same closet

It seems to me that cards on a desk
will drop, and scatter.
Playing the game of solitaire, the game alone.
Cards are like people, the suits are known,
suits which are fit for some and not others.

It seems to be that I don’t know myself.
But people insist that they know you.
They assume that you are simple and maybe I am
But that I should discover.
Discover why this life is, the way it is.

04/17/2003

Posted on 04/17/2003
Copyright © 2024 Sam Roberts