I could never write those.
A type of art so sweet for the soul,
Yet so hard to master and understand.
A poem written by the heart,
The hand only being a
Tool for it to communicate.
Trying to explain
Something no one truly knows.

A soul broken into pieces,
And given an ability to write in return.
As "compensation".
To make people relate,
Getting the tiniest bit of happiness
From their work
While dying slowly.

They said love is a melodious song,
A rhythm felt by two lost souls.
But in a world so materialistic,
Maybe love, too, is an illusion—
Sometimes you're in, sometimes you're not.

They said love is a bird’s soft chirp,
A peaceful echo lingering near.
But when the bird fell silent,
It was just another mirage,
A fleeting sound meant to disappear.

They said it all so true,
But fairytales know it well—
That song is fading,
A tune I wish would never end.

Why?

Why?
Why do the birds,
fly high in the sky?

Why do babies cry?
Why do young girls lie?
Why do soldiers die?
Why do old men sigh;
“Why? Why? Why?”

Why do the birds,
fly high in the sky?
Why?

Love goes away then returns
Sometimes it takes years to come back
People come and go in our life
Familiar memories
Long distances, no contact
Hearts are broken
Can you forgive?
Can you forget the pain?
Can you live again?
It rained down for many years
Lost so many tears
        In this lifetime
I ask myself why?
Did I cry?
Did I have to go through this?
Love is unpredictable
Love is a lot of work

Fight the algorithms
that tell us what to do,
to make us predictable,
unoriginal and bankable.

Have you witnessed how
increasingly bland and homogenous
our lives are becoming?

Choose freedom
avoid the diaries of commerce
that riff on the ubiquity of apps

resist the reductive tropes
of our published and circulated,
perspective customer identities.

Fight the algorithms
with their embedded backlot
familiarity, built around class
and consumerism.

Try to understand the
vague, inscrutable and
purposefully circuitous.

Or stop overthinking
and embrace liberating surrender.
That’s the path I’ve chosen.
.
.
Broken People by The Narcissist Cookbook
Talk Down Dijon