Matt Chylak
12/02/09, 07:35 PM
don't know why i'm posting this. it's rather old. i think i just wanted to post something.
a moment of doubt.
what i do now is meaningless.
can you contain a world in a word?
the length and breadth of a hope in a paragraph?
no. my pencil points may break and ink stains wash away
but there is nothing i can create or adulate
that will help anyone to truly understand
the deepest recesses of my mind.
i currently write these lines not to sound ironic
or to masturbate my fragile ego,
echoing senselessly against a page to prove myself wrong or right.
i write... i write...why?
the blandest verbs and shackled nouns of being
are my attempts at interpreting these motions of being.
of living.
yes, i speak of life.
these drops of chromosome into our miniscule sphere
from the recesses of the atmosphere.
on a side note: what are we doing here?
these questions are the essence of what i fear:
i fear that i will never know how far down the rabbit hole goes.
i fear that when i reach the end of the sidewalk, i will fall.
i fear the nothingness of everything, the meaninglessness of nothing.
i fear the concept of "all."
i fear purpose.
i fear worth.
i fear Nothing on this earth.
i fear hopes and dreams while i have them, ashes and dead leaves.
i fear the principles of blowing away, powerless in both wind and wealth.
i fear Fear itself, toasting my diminished mental health.
but amongst these fears my hopes are written,
descript and fully formed, unbitten
by the maggots of the desperate ignorants crawling on futile ground,
demons of fire licing for a chance to enslave new crowds
with their pretty words.
words! words! words got us into this mess.
curse the Egyptians and their hieroglyphics.
curse the Assyrians and their logs of living.
curse the Mayans and their equations of being.
god damn Gutenberg and his infernal machine,
the cause, the stem of every blight this world now sees.
writing should mean nothing to me.
it is useless, self-abusive, trite, and cheap.
the page reduces us to equality
raises jesters to the levels of kings
by placing pen points in parallel while truth goes to hell.
so what must we do now?
erase! replace this "meaning" with silence and grace.
impatiently breaking the circle of fame,
the promise ring of written bondage,
thrown into the fire with our abject "knowledge."
we know nothing,
and all we can ever learn is what we already know.
so forget this language, this incumbent attempt at wisdom,
this grasping for each other, this longing to comprehend
slipping through our fingers like grains of sand
and the more we clench for meaning, the less we understand.
a moment of doubt.
what i do now is meaningless.
can you contain a world in a word?
the length and breadth of a hope in a paragraph?
no. my pencil points may break and ink stains wash away
but there is nothing i can create or adulate
that will help anyone to truly understand
the deepest recesses of my mind.
i currently write these lines not to sound ironic
or to masturbate my fragile ego,
echoing senselessly against a page to prove myself wrong or right.
i write... i write...why?
the blandest verbs and shackled nouns of being
are my attempts at interpreting these motions of being.
of living.
yes, i speak of life.
these drops of chromosome into our miniscule sphere
from the recesses of the atmosphere.
on a side note: what are we doing here?
these questions are the essence of what i fear:
i fear that i will never know how far down the rabbit hole goes.
i fear that when i reach the end of the sidewalk, i will fall.
i fear the nothingness of everything, the meaninglessness of nothing.
i fear the concept of "all."
i fear purpose.
i fear worth.
i fear Nothing on this earth.
i fear hopes and dreams while i have them, ashes and dead leaves.
i fear the principles of blowing away, powerless in both wind and wealth.
i fear Fear itself, toasting my diminished mental health.
but amongst these fears my hopes are written,
descript and fully formed, unbitten
by the maggots of the desperate ignorants crawling on futile ground,
demons of fire licing for a chance to enslave new crowds
with their pretty words.
words! words! words got us into this mess.
curse the Egyptians and their hieroglyphics.
curse the Assyrians and their logs of living.
curse the Mayans and their equations of being.
god damn Gutenberg and his infernal machine,
the cause, the stem of every blight this world now sees.
writing should mean nothing to me.
it is useless, self-abusive, trite, and cheap.
the page reduces us to equality
raises jesters to the levels of kings
by placing pen points in parallel while truth goes to hell.
so what must we do now?
erase! replace this "meaning" with silence and grace.
impatiently breaking the circle of fame,
the promise ring of written bondage,
thrown into the fire with our abject "knowledge."
we know nothing,
and all we can ever learn is what we already know.
so forget this language, this incumbent attempt at wisdom,
this grasping for each other, this longing to comprehend
slipping through our fingers like grains of sand
and the more we clench for meaning, the less we understand.