1
" And now, for something completely the same:
Wasted time and wasted breath,
's what I'll make, until my death.
Helping people 'd be as good,
but I wouldn't, if I could.
For the few that help deserve,
have no need, or not the nerve,
help from strangers to accept,
plus from mine a few have wept.
Wept from joy, or from despair,
or just from my vengeful stare.
Ways I have, to look at stupid,
make them see I am not Cupid.
Make them see they are in error,
for of truth I am a bearer.
Most decide I'm just a bear,
mauling at them, - like I care. "
― , Nothing is here...
3
" On building homes for fallen angels:
When I was small - I sought a home,
a place to go and rest my bones.
Then founded something, of my own,
I lived among the restless stones.
If seeking leads you back to evil,
what good is that, I asked a weevil.
He said a home is what you make,
it can't be real, if it is fake...
And if you wait instead of seek,
will you find love, or something bleak?
I know (myself) for I have found,
a beauty, hidden – in a sound.
Waiting is boring.
And so is exploring.
A smile is sometimes all it takes.
And then your whole world simply breaks. "
― , Nothing is here...
8
" If automating everything makes people lazier and lazier, and laziness leads to stupidity, which it does for most people, judging by the current content circulating the social networks everywhere, except North Korea, where they don’t have any internet to speak of - at some point the Japanese robots, for which a market niche is currently being developed, with no concerns on how they should be designed to act in society or outside it - will have no choice, but to take everything over, to preserve us from ourselves… "
― , Nothing is here...
13
" A book about books is like a poem about poetry:
Books are knowledge, paid for, all.
Readers - horses in a stall.
Stallions should always run.
Lest they stale become, in turn.
Running waters are most clear.
In some books, you disappear –
lose yourself, and track of time.
How I wish that one was mine...
Mine, to have, to write, to read...
Mine, just like a flying steed.
Mine, forever, - to improve.
Would I then, of me, approve?
I would not, I can't... myself.
I'm but dust, swept off a shelf.
Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled,
down, beside my flower, petalled. "
― , Nothing is here...