A cacophony of melodies and remedies.
Concocted and distilled into various bottles, and potions, and lotions.
Taking two of these, and one of those…once, and twice a day.
They call it therapeutic, but I call it corrective, coercive and divisive.
Estranged from the pains and the strains of a weird and wonderful tonic.
The makings of an emotional masochist, flinching and wincing from life’s many lashes and gashes.
That fuels and excites my resolve and absolves me of all my pity.
That pities both the fool and the pious, who make a living off a pittance.
Is this what it means to exist?
To live and let love in silence and loathing?
Mumbling and miming to endless homilies and harmonies?
A big wet dream in a meme, with no climax?
I guess that your guess, is as good as mine.
The Philosopher's Poet 