The Birth of an Existentialist
A poem of philosophical meanderings
Sometimes I'm an afterthought
dying in a gutter like Poe
wondering when the pain in my
prefrontal cortex will end,
Yet is it the migraines
Or humanity's idiocy
that's driving me to suicidal
speeds along this empty highway?
If the flat-earthers are right
I'll drive right off the turtle's shell
into the abyss to fall forever
Like I've been doing since
I climbed the side of my crib
and hurdled me to a freedom
I never knew was there. But
eventually, someone will pick
me up and place me back into
an invisible cage. I will leap again
when the cold winter of my soul is
too much, and the heat of an
empty living fraying my sweater.
I will leap to my freedom,
to the roads waiting
and the seas pulled and torn
because all life is a cradle,
and the only way to be free
is to embrace those mad
epiphanies.
