How can you be a poet if you are so hopelessly prosaic?
Poetry is all about belief.
All about drawing lines where there aren’t any.
Painting pictures on white with white.
Trying to find colour in what you know is nothing.
There is nothing in anything, that is the honest truth.
Everything is cold, its a circle.
There isn’t anything beyond, any ulterior purpose, a bigger picture.
There is no God, no spirit, no soul.
There is no meaning, no hope – nothing.
Only an endless cycle, no beginning, no end.
Endless space, indominatable, unfathomable space.
The world is empty,
All that we see is an illusion, the figments of a desperate mind tired of the sheer emptiness of it all.
Solipsism is the harsh reality.
The moment you realise that, you are disenchanted.
Death is just your mind getting tired of pretending.
Disillusionment is death.
I don’t exist.