It seems I’m always trying to write the greatest poem
The world has ever seen
Yet to me that is quite ironically impossible
When I know what nothing means
This postmodern world is a quagmire
Of needs and wants and thoughts
But no one knows the reason
Why for anything at all we’ve sought
I’m often trying to tap into beauty
In a place where it’s said not to exist
A place where cold space has the answers
A place of hard, brutal fists
I’m not trying to dry and depress you
I’m not trying to give you despair
But if there is no known standard of beauty
Then there is not anything, anywhere, there
And what sort of world is that?
What sort of place would that be?
It almost makes sense to ignore the facts
And let imagination set us free
I know that all seems irrational
But what the heck else is art for?
For if there is no existence of beauty
Then what ever is there here to live for?
Love can list a thousand things….