Pimple On My Lip
A Poem
I have a pimple on my lip, a painful
pulsating, and inflamed abscess. This
is not just about the infection on my lip
it’s about the corruption of my soul.
The pain is like a swelling river flushing
neuronal stimuli to my brain reminding me
of the ever-expanding papule that absorbs
my attention the whole day long reminding
me about the fact that I am not special.
No, I’m not the famous or inspiring idol I
dream to be, nor am I the kind and humble
monk sitting the whole day in meditation I
am just a normal guy with a pimple on my lip.
It sucks to think about the meaninglessness of
my existence in the greater scheme of things I
mean yeah for the people around me my existence
seems to create a connection that keeps it together.
But when I see myself in the great universe I am
no more than a tiny speck, a piece of matter
a being receiving notifications about trial versions
of my life, which are reminding me my 7 days are over.
Pay now or die trying (to beat the system)
you will never get rid of your own existence
it’s like a deal with the devil, only that the
devil doesn’t exist, yet he still seems to be real.
Pave the way down to hell and show me
where the lights fade out, there I see a
new code for my extended life trial version
Give it to me or I will die, no wait that’s a lie.
I’m dead already, I just see the movie again.
When I was born the decaying of my flesh
began in an endless cycle of eating and
producing new material that you may call I.
I’m tired of thinking what might be, because
the whole idea of thinking is so flawed and
a one-way street. You see there is only the
thinker but no one to listen (except me).
Snap, the swelling explodes, tears are rolling
out of my right eye, I can’t hold it together,
the pain reminds me of my scattered self-esteem
me, the one who sees but is still blind.
Why does it have to be like this? Why me?
I don’t want a pimple on my lip I just
want to be cool and be loved and be
happy for god’s sake. Where did I turn wrong?
