The Way of the Word
The word becomes us,
It shaped our desire
It shapes our needs,
It shows what we feel and
Want and know
And yet, all we say is unoriginal,
A cliché.
Our life is a cliché
Our lives, our hopes, our dreams,
Have all been lived, hoped, dreamt before.
Oh, the desperation,
The uninhibited desire,
To bring something fresh into
This world.
Without doubt, someone
Before me has thought this,
Wrote about this,
Like a lazy author,
Plagiarising,
From things yet unseen.
Nothing to be ashamed of,
And yet,
Nothing to be proud of.
I look out on the street,
Seeing things that
I have seen
Countless times before,
Like a recurring nightmare
That haunts from the past,
And the future.
I want to shut my eyes
To the inevitability
And futility,
Of living a life that
Has been lived by
Others long since dead,
A monument to monotony.
A ritual, enforced by the
Unholy linkage between
The one and only life,
Of which all others
Are a mirror,
And the unimagination
That marks the
Human race.
don't worry if your poems don't start out good, practise makes perfect <3
