in the end

so you’ve written all your life big deal…i’ve been breathing my whole life and i ain’t no expert on breathing
i suppose i suppose but somehow it feels different and anyway how am i to know what’s good and what ain’t?
there’s no way to know anymore no not anymore the old absolutes they are all being torn away and buried
so is this a good thing or is there such thing as a good thing anymore and whats the point of writing if there is no measure
same as breathing i suppose…you write for life you write for yourself and if a perfumed breath lures another so be it
but mostly i am breathing garlic and onions and halitosis and every other reeking repellent – it sends ’em running
than you need a breath mint in your words and watch your diet if ya know what i’m saying…if you care at all
why should i care if care no longer matters cuz God is dead in the hearts and minds of the world and measure is gone
so says you but an ignored standard is still a standard and care is care as long as there is a bottomless well somewhere
i get you but i don’t like the well idea it’s dark and dank when a fountain or a spring everlasting works better for me
that’s nothing to me, you’re the writer, you know which lies/which truths work best for who in black or white
i suppose i am anyhow and whether or not there’s a signpost along the way i’ll do what i do ’til I’m done or done with
and i, well i will breathe and breathe and breathe and maybe just the act of living changes the world but that’s for poets

in the end.

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