Breathing, A Tradition Without Words

. eat your face, "life like, but not alive" .

innate tendencies. . .

are the residue of creation

predisposed, inside

is everyone of us

made to manufacture

a world

seen through genetic glasses

dissolved over time

into flesh

sometimes vindictive

an idiot

a genius

aged slow

from murderous impulses

consuming flesh

and using bone

what becomes of us

at any price

lovely, perfectionists

those who grew from flesh

properly,

  efficiently

in pursuit of something,

breathing. . .

it's a tradition without words 

like a good virus,

repetitive and without nerve

we eat until there's nothing left

we breath until it's empty

we f**k until we can't

it's not exactly what you would think

but i'm sure it's close

     very close

we are ugly

we are similar

that's our beauty

sometimes painfully

and what survives in the end

comes because we die

before the next

we seed the dirt

(we are lucky) for now

and later. . .

is pure abhorrence, we'll all feel it 

                        the end is close

                        the end is near

we all get to die

over time

we turn to dirt

And I write s****y poems

Author's Note

Reviews

[Natasha]

Feels so real, sweet piece

[AYVID N]

I read somewhere that clones if raised separately, could turn into quite different people. Not sure if the equation is tilted in favor of genetics or upbringing. Replicating like viruses? Scary!

[Davidgeo]

I know you don't watch TV but you should really watch the new version of Westworld. It's high quality.

[AYVID N]

Sure! I'll take a look.

[Davidgeo]

You probably won't regret it.