The Point

What is the point of chaos

But to excavate our breathing

To curse or praise the life that we’re received in

To make us question the pretense of our dispositions

To move us to our final missions

To gather pen and write about our senses

To make poets and poetry listen

Because what is one without the other

But listless

Shiftless

Gift-less

Are there no gifts in words

That never read us

The silent imaginary tears

That only fear us

Can be wiped away by Gods hands

We aren’t here to reprimand

Or re-brand

Do we do this

Because we can

I’m tired of exploring the meanings

Trying to make existence make sense

For any number of reasons

If we aren’t bleeding and wounded

Are we even living

What is the virtue of your praying

If not persuading

Do you hold power over God

In your disdaining

Who the hell do we think we are reigning

When we don’t control our very lives

It’s all a hoax

It’s all a guise

There is no point

It’s all a lie

You one day breathe

You one day die

The trick of it is

To make a difference

-ride or die…