On the one hand-
A scream- a shout: MAKE MONEY

On the other one-
Why? What for? Who asks this?

It isn't this simple, it
Really is that simple.

I would to nothing more do,
Than fill pages with thought, lyrics and

Amuse me, amuse you.
Yes, it is true.

I am filled here-
With the space to see how to make-

Yet, neither you nor i,
Truly, do wish to- see-

What it is we could amount
To be-

Leave it aside, brush it now.
What more is to be said,

About the blind poetry-
The blind poetry of-

All things arise from emptiness,
Where does emptiness arise from?

Thus spoke an Ancient Buddha.
I do not understand it, much.

Simply the wheels turning outside -
The pigeons coo, and below the grasses sparkle.

The day turns,
The night as well-

Some something something that
Is not this nothing something.

Why indeed must there be anything,
When just as easy as it for to be nothing-

But philosophising
Is quite unnecessary -

I spent my whole journey
Dancing in front of a mirror:

This one, that is-
All life a reflection of yourself,

All concepts, concepts, concepts-
All the way down - concepts!

Alas- all things do arise from emptiness,
Yet for the life of me-

Pray-
Could I ever understand whereforth emptiness arises from?