listen.

the wind is grazing into the shore and
we are just children, people hating people because we
don't know what else to hate (except ourselves).
between the peaks and rock shelves we find ourselves reaching
for books of reality, books that will tell us the answer,
the elusive answer and we don't even know the question yet.
the meaning of life turns into hours on a summer porch eating
yellow peaches and skimming novels we know we'll never
really read. we'll skip rocks until our hands shake of age
and then we'll sit, mute, in a room full of people we hate,
eating shit soup and watching nurses make their rounds.

but there are still words to make up and songs to wind our
clocks back and we are still breathing. they make a cure for everything.
chapped lips- swipe vitamin e. weight loss- drink water and stop eating
so damn much. heartache- dive into chapter two and make the pages stop
running away from you.
the only cure they haven't figured out is how to save us from ourselves.
for every gun there is a person behind it. or in front of it.

and we ask ourselves: why are we cleaning up after generations before us and
why do we have to change now before we destroy everything we can get our
meaty hands on. what a tragedy. why did i lose my favorite shirt.
why is my skin so dry. why do i have cupboards full of food but nothing to eat.

there is a rhythm in the wind. listen and it captivates you and you know it'll
swallow you whole before you can even take a breath and notice that there
is no hate without love and no hunger without gluttony stringing it along.
no glory for the simple cubicle worker and his army of corporate robots.
how is there a solution to something simple?

curiously enough, there is no cure to hatred even though it's as simple as
reaching in and untying your heart and letting people see you, beautiful you,
for shit and sunshine and everything in between.
no.

that's too risky.
better to not have a heart when you risk your life to give it away.