Michael McParland (7-19-1983 / Dayton, Ohio)
What is life really?
Is there really any meaning or purpose on this earth?
A question man has asked since the beginning of time,
yet still truly millenas later have we found a satisfactory answer? Life's an existence that is putrid in so many ways,
oppressive loneliness with nothing but an empty feeling,
making you realize in the profound silence,
with your ever racing quite often screaming thoughts,
that shout you down to the lowest levels of existence,
that life truly is just a drifting thing,
a speck of dust nothing more than a useless mass,
of particles and cells blowing along the cosmic floor.
Just waiting for the day our numbers done and be swept up to the bin.
Life just is.
I couldn't care less.
I just want to be left alone and let it pass.
In my shell where I'm forever on my own,
I won't hurt anybody and they can't hurt me.
No longer in any kind of view,
Isolation for the course of life,
far away from the harmful things that surround.
Contently sitting and laying down,
enjoying my music, movies, and books.
The real comfort of a man unfit for public display.
So tell me now what is life really?
Beyond just a scientific based fact of the biological vessel.
I want to be given a reason to justify a floating existence,
where I don't fit in and people are pure mystery,
no matter how hard I honestly try in the alone again.
I guess perhaps just too damn weird,
Nothing in me with which to relate.
So what, who cares?
My question is just what life is?
I don't think there's a truly fulfilling answer,
or road to help me find that answer,
and certainly no path of acceptance.
That all lays in my books, my movies, my music.
Enjoyed privately sitting or laying in bed alone.
So what is life really?
I guess existence just is,
no good reason or meaning.
It really is extremely depressing.
Comments about this poem (Life Is...... by Michael McParland )
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