Off The Page

Words are only words if they come off the page
Written manuscripts of our daily streams of bullshit
Seem to ramble and are eager to rage
For lost moments of meaning between 9 and 5
We seem to pick up the dreaming only during siesta and midnight drives
For our collective thoughts to find a key
To unlock the clock and unwind the time
To seize our own mind and write how are we?
Are we even feeling?
Comes in glimpses of the show
Who really ought to know
What the fuck is going on
With how we should be treating ourselves lately?
The bullet noises coming by social media desensitizes quicker than a Amazon order
But chaos is chaos and we never asked for Trump or boredom
Yet here we are begging and pleading for a change to come
When the freedom that rings seems to be found in pornhub links
How can something so crude and humorous lie still while others stay suffering?
I ask what is the purpose of love if we don't know how to become
Aware of our own being
The consciousness that streams like a river, will beset both sides of the human quiver, shakes and drives for the making of our mind towards a new world order
Divinity strikes a chord between intellect and heart
But absurdity forgets where to start
So God is outside space and time
Can we ever equate ourselves to the language of love
When we refute the equation itself?
To where can we begin to help
Look to each moment and realize the gift
The giver and the gifted are all in one
A holy trinity amongst you and me
The gospel that keeps on giving
Life is worth this post-modern poetry
For these dusty words that we read
May be spoken words that I recite
May come off the page and fly into the night