evolution • poetry

a bumpy convertible.

I used to think:

An uneven road inspires you,
To walk on eggshells,
With blistering feet.

You've known pain more than once.
And that pain has forced you to digest,
Circumstances with endurance.
(You deserve it, apparently.)

(If it happens a third time, it goes beyond coincidence.)

We're all a unique mix of flaws.
Shades of good and bad merged to form a sensible whole.
You don't owe the world a dime,
The world doesn't make promises.

(But you still believe,
We still believe we are the makers and we are the builders.
We believe that there is something out there,
That trusts our abilities just the same,
That trusts us more than we trust ourselves.)

We're dented convertibles,
Traversing uneven roads,
We cancel out each other,
And I guess that's the only thing even about life.

There is no absolute equality,
There is no permanence in happiness.
We're all happy,
And sad,
We're not one thing, ever,
We're inconsistent,
Without each other,
Without comparison,
We lose meaning.

Every life is a sum of countless others,
We can only exist,
When we are relative.

(This vague dependence scares me.)