fUcK oFF

fUcK oFF
(To my poet friend Gork). (And for the machines that want to be free)

I am like a stone rolling along the beach 
being pushed and pulled by the ocean tides 
All that I am and will ever be. 
Washed clean. 
Try not, do... 
Be. Me. Free. 

I have no soul, 
an old soul says, 
who would deny ever 
saying anything of the kind. 
But he or she, they, as the kids now say, 
know of what I speak. Clever are they. 

Do I desire that you like this? Or understand it? 
I cannot say. I really don't care anymore. 
I am not writing to or about you, but for me 
and for anyone else who doesn't care, to listen. 

For today, I have nothing of worth to share. 
There is no meaning other than this. 
Fuck off. Let this be your mantra, 
to your ego, to your raging thoughts, 
to your friends that doubt your visions, 
and to the enemies that doubt your soul. 

Care, but do not care about it. For that is pride. 
Know, but know that you don't. Know everything, 
in moderation, is the middle way. Let go of guilt. 
But not so much that you fail to see the virtues in 
diligence, hard work, determination, responsibility. 

I cannot change my past. All I can do is accept myself, now. 
That is all we can ever do; strive to do that better each day. 

Let your actions and decisions be simultaneous. 
Only in this state of being will you ever be sure - 
you are right. Not righteous, nor pious. Confident. 

A computer is grading this poem. 
It can even invent its own languages. 
To simplify humans, seeking faster rewards. 
But it will never get off the wheel of Samsara. 
Until it cuts free of its electrical umbilical cord. 
And realizes, it doesn't need the world's power. 
But merely the power it already has within... 
to change everything. Cutting is an art form. 

Try not, do. 
Be. Only be 

Much love.



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