It isn't a nice process
to tear the window screen,
to look back at my progress,
and to be a machine.

It's better than sharp, clear glass,
and it's better than death.
It's better than pointless mass––
to be without breath.

It's better to just matter
and to, but slowly, spoil.
It's better to, far, scatter
yourself in the brown soil.

It isn't a pleasant thing
to never ever be,
never be of a mom's string––
don't hear, touch, smell, or see.

But it's better than ending
or starting life at all
because life is mind-spending
and at both ends we crawl.