Being a human being is a very weird experience. Supernatural in its ability, and yet doomed to a life of pain and tumult at birth, and an unknown pain in death. It's truly an asinine concept we all must live with, the only grace being that we as human beings are very good at putting shit out of our minds that's far in the future, in favor of the instant gravitational pull of the present. Which often isn't pleasant either -- at times.

Being close to death in occupation, as part of circumstance, or due to pure rambling thought and morbid obsession, is unsettling. I know there are those among us with a fixation, however, I hesitate to believe that the macabre thought of their death doesn't at least put the slightest bit of fear into their minds. Doubt at the very least.

War, famine, illness, vehicular collision, fire, and all manner of accidents. Manmade and natural. Not only are we at the whims of ourselves but we're at the whims of the natural world around us. Which we subvert to our purposes through structures, fossil fuels, mineral cultivation, that is a sentence which could go on comma by comma ad infinitum. This subversion leads to deaths of our own making, occasionally, far more than anyone would like, or like to admit. The natural world around us often takes it upon itself to fuck up all these manmade things and cause more death yet.

That's what I find myself thinking on a Wednesday evening. Alone trying to play music loud enough to try to cut that tension hanging in the air, and the grief in my heart and head. Trying to drink enough booze to feel okay for a few today.

Am I glad I'm back? I am. Ask me again. Am I glad I'm back? I'm not.

Humans we call us

Coming to this life

Born to be something

Inside the piece of a paper

Old or new

You will read me there

Take a teddy bear

Sit on your bed

And start to read

You will find questions

Thoughts about everything

Moments and memories

All of those are mine

Just take a paper

Take your finest pen

And write down

Write your stories

The ones they make you

The paper is my body

The pen is my blood

The stories are my memories

The bad shape paper is my heart

Broken and in pieces

Can't be one so you throw it away

Books represent my play room

Crime or thriller

I enjoy them a lot

Romance is my cursed spot

Once you approach me

Things go down and we split

Human we call us

But I am no human

A monster I am in reality

You can heart me

Like you heart the paper

I will handle it

You can violent me

Like you do, to the paper

I will not give up

You can love me

Like you love a good book

I will give and I'll be broke in seconds

I live through books

Stories, poetry

And yet I am not human

I am a monster

So I destroy my life

I do not love like you do

I am a disaster

Trouble some call me

And I lie bunch of times

If that makes me no monster

Then human it is

But I can't be both

So I'm trapped as a monster

Inside of a human body

You may call me Monster Human