Funeral For A Penguin Poem by Can I Live?

I believe that this world’s clock is ticking,
Disaster around the corner,
Waiting for its next victim.
From what I have seen…
The spider weaving its web.
As you rush through your daily life,
You destroy the masterpiece
With the flick of your wrist,
Or perhaps with your face,
As he might prefer, staring down at you from a tree limb
From which he starts his new venture.
It’s a wonder that such a putrid
Stench could emanate from an existence
That is actually an illusion,
No existence at all, a Superman of a world
Shadowing a fiery reality,
A matrix, a machine in which we swim like
Goldfish caught in a current, doing what we are…
Told to do.
Apathetic “conformedindividuals”
Abusing ourselves and each other,
Building a structure which says simply,
“We are one.”
And though we pretend to love this shiny
Silver monument… it does not resemble
Peace, or love, or even entertainment.
And though we are made, anxiously,
To agree, further and further we reach
To peel off the shiny silverness of life.
Eventually, to take a knife, cut shapes into it
And realize…
That it is in fact, thin as tissue paper.
Shapes of the ocean, shapes of the sky,
And most of all, shapes of freedom,
Black, noxious…. Freedom.