"i am a little speck of insignificant nothing,"
said the little speck of insignificant nothing
and the little speck decided to do nothing at all;
for what could it do, being so insignificant and little?

"i am the great big speck of meaning and purpose,"
said the great big speck of meaning and purpose
and the great big speck decided to do nothing at all;
for what needed changing, were there not problems?

a giant feels their smallness
standing next to a mountain
for the mountain hath stood
ages, growing and growing

a mouse feels their giantness
standing next a patch of sand
for the sand hath been worn
away from a giant mountain

when the world burns down
and the red wheelbarrow rusts away
when the sky starts falling again
and the heavens collapse

leave me be
and let me rest
on my concrete pillow
and drift away alone

when the helios grows large
and venus starts getting chills
when mercury stops to take a breath
and when saturn turns a new leaf

leave me be
and let me rest
on my concrete pillow
and drift away alone

when the past comes back to bite
and the future staves away
when the clock starts ticking awry
and the digits dance around

leave me be
and let me rest
on my concrete pillow
and drift away alone

The common advice is to look both ways before crossing the street.

John did not like to listen to the common advice. John knew he was different - he was special. God was looking out for him. No cars would run him over while he’s crossing the street.

Or so he thought. And indeed, a car ran him over while he was crossing the street. Now, John was floating up to the pearly gates.

“Let me in, God, for I have abided by your rules for my years on this earth.”
Today, God was not having it. This insolent child thought he was special and exceptional. “Child, you should learn your place before you join your brethren here.”  So John was sentenced to thumb-twiddling in purgatory until he learned how ordinary he was.

Purgatory was an old, dying room. Walls yellowing, bits peeling down like skin-tags. Around the walls were bright white Monobloc chairs, their curving bodies contrasting with the floor like fine china against rusted silverware. John took a seat on a chair and started twiddling his thumbs. What else was there to do except twiddle his thumbs? He was special, there was no need for him to change anything about himself. He was a role model. God was just filing out some paperwork to reserve for him a throne of riches in the heavens. All he needed to do was wait, wait for his number to be called.

God decided to see what John was doing. “Child, what are you doing?”

“Waiting,” John replied. “Waiting for you to give me my throne.”

“And why should I give you a throne?”

There was no reply, as this should have been obvious! Only an idiot wouldn’t realize how special John was.

And so John sat back down, twiddling his thumbs. He had nothing to change, God was just being stubborn. He was jealous. Yes, God was just jealous about how special he was. Now he just needed to wait out God’s hissy fit. So he sat down on his ordinary, mass-produced Monobloc chair. (John knew that he was not ordinary, nor was he mass-produced.)

God decided to see what John was doing, again. “Child, what are you doing now?”

“Waiting,” John replied. “Waiting for you to realize how much more special I am.”

“And why are you so special?”

John didn’t have an answer, but he knew that he was special. Right?

So John sat back down and started twiddling his thumbs. Why was he so special? John pondered this question for such a long time that God decided to give John something to do. He snapped his divine fingers, and all of a sudden, a mirror appeared opposite John’s Monobloc chair. “If you really are so perfect, go look in the mirror and see how perfect you really are,” boomed God’s godly voice.

So John looked in the mirror and was stunned by his own beauty, like Narcissus before him. He was as pretty as a daffodil, and he knew that he was very, very special. Very special indeed.

On our Mother Earth, there lies a desert
a scab of sand set softly on its surface

On this here desert, there lies a tree
the sole survivor of its species

On this lonely, lurking tree, there lies a fruit
a message-in-a-bottle to no one in particular

On this rotting, hopeless fruit, there lies a fly
hoping to save sustenance and see another day

On this frantic, fuzzy fly, there lies a seed
a cry for help from the lonely, lurking tree

On this seed, there lies a thought and a wish
for someone to see
the lonely, lurking tree

i woke up
but now
i am too tired

i could do a push-up
if i tried
but i am too tired

i could take time to enjoy
my sweet old etcetera
but i am too tired

i could stand up for myself
if i tried
but i am too tired

i could write stories of awe
and songs of legend
but i am too tired

i could improve
if i tried
but i am too tired

i could rest
if i tried
but i am too tired

so full;l of myeslf