What causes you to feel like this,
to sympathize
with the admirable
or the understandable.
You identify
and characterize,
affirming the senses
with anguish
fearfulness
and diction.
And what does it hint,
as it influences you,
confuses quality with fate
until you cant breath
without permit,
encouraging your response.
My soul has become a great work
of fiction,
a drama,
rich in shit
and meaninglessness.
I think you changed me.
Speaking intelligence
with stupidity,
losing the difference
in idealistic
and pragmatic.
Doesnt it amuse you,
this situation,
and how youll use it
as an excuse
for what you never
should have done.
Maybe its the irony
of addiction,
needing philosiphy
to explain away marriage
family
and religion.
Morality is dead,
to an extent
where its memory
is nothing
but a puppet.
Your systems in decline.
Are you anything unusual
or unworthy,
humanity becoming something foreign
that only assumes you
when no one else is around
to see it.
Are you extra-special,
or any better
than the rest
of them.
What did all of this suggest,
and make apparent,
about my assumptions
of you?
Can you love,
any easier now.
Can you feel,
any better now.
Can you be,
any happier now.
Or was this poem
just a waste
of time and space.