I live to create impressions.
A two-faced work, that’s how I see myself.
And oh, so obtuse,
Sometimes I don’t know
Why I say what I do or dont,
And why I do what I do.
At other times, I do.
I am so inward, for I never wonder
What I will if he did what I do.
I have a process,
Of living, of life,
You had your chances,
You will have more.
This is not the end.
There is no end.
Judgements may help you see better,
But the ultimate voice is still your own.
Their complex baggage
To outgrow endeavour,
To eat their own
Slice of sweet pie,
The ceaseless irony of maturity.
Every life, the starting point for
A divine argument, If ever such a thing exists.
Bogged in a queer sense of fear
That my books will not miss me
When I pass away.
When the past visits and away,
When partnership fails,
Yet holds your sway.
Decide not to move to your impulse,
Do not fall prey to your own false sense.
You think you have family values,
But you fool yourself, you have none.
You are a limited intellectual,
You may have lots to give,
But you have changed
The course of your life,
In to merry submission to alien
Whims of love’s regulation books.
So live on, love on,
If this is where you wish to dock,
Settle and know,
That any port is but a resting place,
Do not fool yourself with the planned agony of permanence,
It does not exist.
These words, these thoughts,
Are but particles in an infinite expansion,
There are no ifs and buts in space,
So live your petty little life to the fullest,
Gain or no gain.