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Impulse




What had I wanted from life
before understanding I wouldn't get it?
Was it more life? As simple as that?

Some of us long to leave
behind a memory to outlast our bones.
But why? But why?

The habit of gathering stems
from an impulse to save the world.
It won't be saved.
You are playing a game of moments.

It takes longer to fix things
than to fuck them up.
Who has time for that?

As we race toward death,
responsibility seems a luxury.

Individuality arises from error, is error,
which doesn't make it wrong,
only divergent.

Where is what isn't
glorious nonsense?
I have been entertained
enough.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.