(782.) It 4:01 AM - 5:11 AM
=---------------------------------------------------=
Let me define it for you

this is not cut and dry
there will be a dotted line
that runs over itself
that sort of becomes a solid line
so don't trust that
as a matter of fact,
just put away the scissors

it's a feeling of accomplishment
when you haven't really accomplished anything
anything worth calling accomplishment at least
sort of
but you have accomplished something
keep that bit in mind!
Perhaps you have accomplished something
Just no one seems to reward you for it
not even yourself

it's like a simile
in the way it's comparing two things
using like
but it's more than a simile
because it's just more than like
it's a little like a little bit more than like
like, you know?

it's a fleeting moment
that seems to last forever
a sentence with no period.
Or any other punctuation for that matter
Except it follows every grammatical law
that the those stingy bureaucrats have instated

And it's standing at the podium preaching to them
and dying in it's own gas chambers for what it believes in
not a self-made martyr
nor another statistic in the papers
a tally,
a total,
a number,
and a letter
That's what it is.
But it's not a hypocrite.
Or a contradiction.
Perhaps a Paradox.
But always a good one.

It's it is.
isn't it?

I'm not sure,
but I think I am it.
And so are you.
But I am not you.
You are not I.

It's nothing like a single hand clapping
(Though it is possible)
It's not it's original face before it was born
(Which I believe is it's mother and fathers)
Though I suppose it could be 3 pounds of Flax.
(Aren't we all?)
It's no koan.
But it's equally perplexing

It's reaching nirvana,
through Christ,
arriving at the table of the Gods,
Zeus raising his cup to you,
toasting to your dance with Venus,
as you talk religion with Muhammad,
and win a duel with Krishna,
and being reborn and not remembering a thing
Except the sneaking suspicion you should have a suspicion

It's much the same as a racing snowmobile
that flips over
trapping you,
but the ice weasels never come

It's no Catch-22.

It is black and white
Mixed together
Yin and Yang I suppose.
Blurred lines.
Dotted lines though,
let us not forget.

It's being good
at mindless things
and bad at being bad
But failing nonetheless

it's succeeding at failing,
but not succeeding to fail.

I swear it's not a contradiction.

It's experiencing love
everyday
with everything
but not everyone
just so it doesn't lose it's luster

It's like silver that shines brighter now
Than it ever did.
The white paint you put on this canvas
turns out brighter than the canvas
you put it on

It's a humanitarian
That's black.
And white.
Cold hard factual.
(It's not racist)
It'd rather be Mocha if it had a choice.

It is free-will.
Pre-determined
And it breaks the barriers set for it.
At all times.

It reads,
writes,
types,
and is generally
blind.
It's eyes read in brail.
For the life of it,
it can't figure out how

It longs for well water,
but settles for the bottles,
the other bring it.

It's love.
(Not really,
but it wishes it were)
It's in love.
With love.
(But love doesn't seem to return it's phone calls)

It's the only sane thing left,
but commits itself,
just to be safe.
It's probably the most sane,
thus making it horribley sane.
It often ponders what sane is,
and often at times reckons to find
Alfred Korzybski in the afterlife,
if only to shake his hand,
and follow that up with an ass-kicking.

It's not me.
It's not my mother's child,
my father's child,
or any child for that matter.
But wait, it is I!
Damn grammar.
It is I, but not me.
It is you, but also you.

It is confusing.
But seems to fit into a mold.
That breaks and recreates itself everyday.

It's not the Alpha,
Ω,
Beta,
but at times it is ω
and also,
φ
The last for reasons this poet still doesn't know

It has no nationality,
but is oddly patriotic.
It has seen many nations,
many worlds,
many existences,
and still can't find the 100th piece of the $1 puzzle.
It believes it to be hidden under the couch.
But still doesn't look for it.
It doesn't want to be a God.

It's not bisexual.
But it still thinks about the other sex from time to time.
Whatever that may be.
it doesn't tell me.

It's not the lorax.
Or the Grimace.
And it can probably be killed.
but thankfully,
no one has tried.
It will not live one minute over forever.
(it doesn't want to be greedy after-all,
there's plenty of eternity for everyone)

I fear it sometimes,
but it's hug, at times, leaves me comforted.
Sometimes it just scares me more.
Then only it's promises calm me.
What promises?
Well it promises to keep a secret,
and I the same.
So I can't tell you what.
Besides what it is.
Well, not what exactly.
I'm going to tell you everything but what.
And about what.
But not what.
For I would like for it to keep faith in me.
It has faith in all of us.
But at times we have none it it.

I wonder, will anyone know our secret?
We all meet it.
We all are it.
We all live it.
Breath it.
But no one worships it.
And it is happy for that.

It wonders,
It wanders,
It wenders,
It winders,
It wunders,
and sometimes even wynders.
but won't tell me how.

And it prays.
To no one but itself.
Every night.
But no one but itself ever answers.
And it takes comfort in this.

It is Agnostic.
Because it is stupid.
It is it.
Because it is wise.

I love it.
And it loves me.

And really,
that is all I need to know about it.
But I'm always open for questions.
So what do you want to know about it?
I'd be glad to tell you everything but our secret.

It's over now.
(The poem that is)

Nice.. So are you going to define what a "thing" is next?

zehr gut!