You’ve been: punched, kicked, scraped, bit, crunched, ached, slit.
Pain, you’ve been hurt. Your honesty makes you a glutton for punishment. Life sucks, then you die… I like to think of life as a vacuum. And death? The universal unknown.
How beutful would this view be?
It’s sounds flowing o’er me?
The mattress o’ grass a squishy spot?
If all life’s pain were but for naught.
A full circle of sounds reverb
and echo. The hum of traffic
the pattern of wind, click clackle
the grass and drum on my left.
I’m contract of sorrow
I’ll someday be deaf… but I
know the contrast is thair.
And how there b’ no beauty to spare.
“To a mouse,” I may think, “he’s more lucky than me…
since the present only toucheth he.”
But I know my future endeth,
and on pleasure won’t always spendeth.
I see so much beauty in the world,
and can occasionally afford to seek it.
The sun’s on my back with wind tickling my side,
matter of fact! It’s a matter o’ pride.
Moments like this will be lost in the rain,
like tears of sadness and fears of pain.
The matter that makes me: my body,
my brain, will continue as long as matter exists,
and will be relevant as long as life persists.
pain, sorrow, and conceptions thereof
shall always encounter the joys of tomorrow.
How can one feel my joy and beauty…
green grazing sheep, boat floating oceans.
Edinburgh around me, its winds which surround be,
it’s food that supped me, and whiskey that drunked me.
Shadows dim areas while the sun shines unto others.
No dark without light here, cold without heat,
no light without dark, no drum without beat.