Im Gonna Go Until I'm Not

Who the fuck could run a marathon?

What kind of psychopath does it take to remain in physical motion for so long?

My limbs have never been as strong as the rest,

As far as endurance is concerned.

I can lift

Operate

But the idea of a marathon is bullshit to me.

We run because we must.

Limits are fun to break

But some leave no value in the wake of their destruction.

What is left at the end of one of these daunting jogs?

Sweat?

It evaporates.

Fitness?

It fades with age.

And suddenly the clown wearing a mask of my own face laughs on my shoulder.

"The sun rises and your words are as cheap as when it set!" The Jester cackles.

And here I sit.

As futile as the pace keeper I mock.

With no sweat.

With no physical gain.

But with the same nonsense,

That has echoed,

And will repeat itself ever fading,

Into the cavern of my past,

and its bound future.

A Typical Superstitious Bother

For a hunchback loudmouth with a laptop and too much to say,
Superstition is the hat
the idiot I hate
Is alway wearing.

Practical and as dictated as it can be,
Our written language can only guess
At how impractical
The Typist can be.

And how aware
And unyielding
The dumbfuck in the
"Im scared of the nothing something"
Hat
Can begin
Can continue
To lay down the world in bent and agreed upon code,
Only to shrug his practice of creation
To take an extra step
And yield to the apex of every ladder's crest.

It isnt fear,
But a prayer
To the "I hope I'm a nothing something too"
That guides my step
And keeps me believing in these thin
Black
Bent shapes.