Came across this poem somewhere. It is bleak. Enjoy.
What Is Life
Is life just a bowl of shit? Could that really be it?
A standard issue spoon at birth and a mighty appetite.
Seems a bit futile, don't you think? A bit of a waste.
What about happiness? Peace of mind? How does one
go about getting these things?
Are you even allowed to try?
Or does the trying upset the natural order of things?
Death hovers over everything, poking and prodding,
goading with an evil smirk.
When will you get the life you want? When will you succeed?
It truly sucks that death never loses.
Flash the phony smile, project disingenuous optimism.
These are your weapons. Embarrassing aren't they?
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players".
Well said. Substitute "life" for "world" and you get truth.
We play at life. We are actors. While the real thing, this "precious gift",
slips by unnoticed. Unremarkably.
We know nothing, learn nothing, understand nothing.
Seems absurd. Don't you think?
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