What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
It has become apparent that I, maker of all,
which includes, unbelievably, you too,
must put all of my work on hold
just to come and check-in on you.
I have listened to you vehemently beat
with such astonishing regularity the dead horse
of your, lets say discomfort (?)
over your time alive being finite,
that I actually drew up plans to wipe
out of existence totally, all horses ever
just so you'd be forced to find a new topic.
I threw out those plans of course.
I decided instead to come directly to you and ask,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
Are you aware, last Tuesday, for example,
while you were writing that miserable little poem,
you know the one,
you kept rhyming 'die' with 'Why? Why? Why?'
Gahh. What a horrible read,
are you aware, that while you spent
four hours of your finite life unhappily writing
on your fears of death
a man much more adjusted to his
mutual, unchangeable lot
took out the very girl you write all your other poems about?
If you're curious, they had a great time.
Does that help clear things up?
If you're still confused, please, tell me while I'm here,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
Oh, how we both know that you have your words.
So ordered are they in your head.
So active in breaking life's happenings down
in a useless obsession to understand
even the tiniest subcategories of meaning
found within larger, though still insignificant meanings,
all of which you broke down before,
forgot, broke down again, forgot, repeat into ∞.
I'm amazed you ignore the one word which silences all others.
You act as a fool who refuses a warm blanket on a cold night
out of a dumb idea of strength through suffering.
You ignore the only word which covers all who are confused;
accept.
Accept.
I can tell you with some humor, that
most of life is not for thought to poke at
like a sexually incompetent lover getting
a chance at the town's *****
Which you'll remember didn't go so well for you either.
I think Kim was her name? Anyways,
still, you have your words,
so I'll ask you again,
Maker to man,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
Perhaps, a simplified picture
will help you get an idea of my disappointment here.
Lets see, how to make this really basic for you...ah!
For me, you give off all the excitement of a cat staring
at a limp string on the ground, occasionally patting it
with its paw, claws retracted.
But I want you to be like a dog who ferociously bites
down on the rope I hold the other end of
and pulls with all his strength against me! For fun! For life!
For a right he assumed all on his own to have what he wants
and works to make that true.
But you,
you just sit there pawing listlessly at all I hold out to you.
So I ask you again...
No.
No.
Never mind. You're done.
Come with me.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
It has become apparent that I, maker of all,
which includes, unbelievably, you too,
must put all of my work on hold
just to come and check-in on you.
I have listened to you vehemently beat
with such astonishing regularity the dead horse
of your, lets say discomfort (?)
over your time alive being finite,
that I actually drew up plans to wipe
out of existence totally, all horses ever
just so you'd be forced to find a new topic.
I threw out those plans of course.
I decided instead to come directly to you and ask,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
Are you aware, last Tuesday, for example,
while you were writing that miserable little poem,
you know the one,
you kept rhyming 'die' with 'Why? Why? Why?'
Gahh. What a horrible read,
are you aware, that while you spent
four hours of your finite life unhappily writing
on your fears of death
a man much more adjusted to his
mutual, unchangeable lot
took out the very girl you write all your other poems about?
If you're curious, they had a great time.
Does that help clear things up?
If you're still confused, please, tell me while I'm here,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
Oh, how we both know that you have your words.
So ordered are they in your head.
So active in breaking life's happenings down
in a useless obsession to understand
even the tiniest subcategories of meaning
found within larger, though still insignificant meanings,
all of which you broke down before,
forgot, broke down again, forgot, repeat into ∞.
I'm amazed you ignore the one word which silences all others.
You act as a fool who refuses a warm blanket on a cold night
out of a dumb idea of strength through suffering.
You ignore the only word which covers all who are confused;
accept.
Accept.
I can tell you with some humor, that
most of life is not for thought to poke at
like a sexually incompetent lover getting
a chance at the town's *****
Which you'll remember didn't go so well for you either.
I think Kim was her name? Anyways,
still, you have your words,
so I'll ask you again,
Maker to man,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
Perhaps, a simplified picture
will help you get an idea of my disappointment here.
Lets see, how to make this really basic for you...ah!
For me, you give off all the excitement of a cat staring
at a limp string on the ground, occasionally patting it
with its paw, claws retracted.
But I want you to be like a dog who ferociously bites
down on the rope I hold the other end of
and pulls with all his strength against me! For fun! For life!
For a right he assumed all on his own to have what he wants
and works to make that true.
But you,
you just sit there pawing listlessly at all I hold out to you.
So I ask you again...
No.
No.
Never mind. You're done.
Come with me.
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