Does nothing matter?
Is matter nothing but dancing shattered galaxies pushing and shoving each other?

And on Earth, is it worth thinking?
That I'm just a piece of eternal dirt thinking that I'm just a piece of dirt thinking?

We're all just stars, tasting humanity for an instant.
In all its fallacies, we're systems of suns that love ****** without resistance.

With the assistance of Christian values and armed pistols.
Harmful as ignorance is blissful, we're still missing the deal.

We're still ******* away the real position to feel. We're still wishing down the same ol' wishing wells
and hoping to Christ they're real.

Worse than guns, it's the waste of freedom -- It's unequal -- to **** the hungry from a distance is still evil.

I fly atomically and everything else is informal.
What's normal? Where's God when things get so awful?

He's epidermal - like an antigermal lotion. A magic potion to nurture the thought that we're important.

We're all just stars, answering a call to be Human.
Let the cold bars that hold the others down remain open till my life is dormant.

And our heads are still cluttered and cloth covered.
Filled with an age-old confusion straight from ol' Mohammed's cupboard.

They fool us with cooked messages from book passages that preach love.
Scare us into being apparatuses of a God above.

That's why society is shattered. It's what's wrong with the world.
The perennial infancy of thought that's forced unto our boys and girls.

Such unclarity, that's baked into our childrens' recipe. It's insanity to think that we don't just turn back into energy.

I'm not religiously inspired to forgive,
nor have the insidious desire to live to inspire religious permittance.

I prefer a future purpose undiscovered.
A death dimension still covered from religions' crazy buffer.

I spied you there
old friend
with new color to your cheek

I hid - for courage fled - you see
naughty thing
so proud and naked in plain sight

Do you remember me?
Placed in past love
loved, but past love now long past

Once open
to my comings
now forgotten and closed off.

Foolish bird that won't sing.
A rumbling little thunder becomes on the wind.
A worker in full swing.
Clinging gracefully to every flower that he finds there to cling.
Weary bird, anymore not caring for threat.
And those long brown wings weigh heavier yet.
Not looking.
Not singing.
The boy cries, "Just sting him, sting him! Sting him to death!"
Poor bird with poisoned veins lays still in his rest.
His eyes slowly closing he remembers his nest.
And his mother singing proudly deep from her breast.

Ephemeral isn't beautiful unless it's beautiful and beautiful.
And beautiful isn't this unless it's this.
And beautiful.
And Literature is the water in the ocean,
as the ocean gathers sunshine for Grandfather, who is beautiful.
Grandfather is the man in the ocean who was there.

Those who gather literature this autumn in the ocean
are not beautiful and are not men or ephemeral men
nor are they there in the ocean with Grandfather,
but are beautiful for Grandfather - but fleeting.
This lollipop is fleeting but also not a toy.
It's a lollipop.
It's this.
This is not a toy lollipop,
but was a lollipop when Grandfather was a boy and beautiful.

I built a prison in my head
To house the trouble deep inside
And sentenced certain things to life
In dark confinement gagged and tied.

Kept on a level far below
Are aches and pain that never show
Still further down I keep the lies
In dark confinement from the light.

And sometimes I see just their i's
That look up to me high above
And painfully I realize
They are my biggest threat to love.

Dusken the night
with the blood of day,
In fading sight
lay full your range.

The force of light
against your stay,
All pith of might
has fled away.

Within our eyes
your shadows grip,
Our heart's appease
towards you play.

Our fleeting life
all heaven knows,
That in your clutch
no memory shows.

Who will remember me when I pass?
What am I to the nations?
Does the dust pray to the ground from its past to save it from damnation?
Will forever really seem so long
or as short as life has been?
Was I created to sing the world my song?
Who will remember me?