tookman

I like to write things, but sometimes it all gets a little too much.
Poetry isn't much of my thing, really, it isn't.
"The only way to get your point across," an old man said to me,
"Is to resonate, articulate, to make sure all
are either enlightened or at a loss."

Gramps wasn't all that much of a man, in short.
He always wanted everybody to be happy;
Coercion and violence weren't ever a choice, not for him.
Not even for a last resort.

So when he hit me, I knew I had done wrong.
How could his weak, frail knuckles,
hurt so much?
Had I hurt him so much?

"You fool," by him, a crumpled paper on the floor.
It was bleached white, with blue lines.
"Bastard, blinded, ignorant," I held my eyes poor.
"Meaningless life is meaningful."
New whines.

"You're the blind one," I spat,
my venomous stare falling upon muddy eyes.
"To see meaning in this,
I would have to be stuck,
In delude; in spite of reality."

"At least," Gramps cried, "You would, you would,
Find respite; a foothold,
From which you could pull yourself,
You could pull yourself from the wicked spontaneity.
The wicked spontaneity,
Which you inflict upon yourself."

I left him. No, I lied.
He left me, in the end, he died.
A decrepit old man, solitary,
Alone, in material, but spiritually,
Spiritually, his words are a harness.
A safety net, of which today,
I need less.

No gods, no masters; bread.