Poetry is for the emotionally weak...
... like a bird which cannot fly.
But heres some Guavatry anyways...
MAN
I've just been sitting here,
mechanically escaping
my recessed mind
The search is over
I found myself,
and slip back to nothingness
The tie I wear
is my armor against
I'm a card carrying member
of the everyday sect.
I enjoy my futility,
my contrived, passionate plea.
I go to work
theoretically searching,
for the better life
The search is over
I found myself,
and I pretend to enjoy the day.


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