Philosophy has limits, because it tries to make sense of life

Poetry screams

It’s strange to try to make money from a scream

Stranger still, to make sense of life

Making money, makes sense

but it only makes cents

the dollars don’t deliver what we want

A man’s work should be his worship

to a god who doesn’t care

Poetry is mine

it is divine

Not much makes me feel like a god at the end of the day

Walking out of the woods on a quiet evening with the sunset at my back—

blessing me, for being there

the last person on earth,

is all I have left.

7 thoughts on “Poetry Screams

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