Anything you make of it

This... mountain of solitude this... pile of interpretation. Don't we... at least I feel alone when I see you looking at the same picture as me and talking another language.
Language... it's powerful indeed. For everything is subjective...

Phylosophy is almost useless. You just won't make anything out of what I say, and I have a problem... I just phylosophate for your own goddamn sake.

What I make of this world? It just is, along with us. As an insignifiant part of it, with an ego big enough to dream of changing it "for the better"... now I choose to respect. And love, and admire, and be astonished.
Why? Because I have to choose a way to express myself, don't I?
All this talking... text is irrelevant... meet me and I will show so much more.
I'll end with this quirk of grammar we call rhymes... why?

Just kill yourself
And on the empty blackboard you will be reminded
That you forgot twenty books a shelf
Filled with your delighted.

Just let yourself fall
So yesterday will make you fight for tomorrow
A condescending wake up call
From a road with holes in a row.

Just live and cry and hug me
Why? Because I am and because you are each other
Sad as this nonesense could ever be
Sad as our dying mother.

Just forget the symbols
Every word just rhymes and is as common
This is an empty shelf for your own dolls
In each other put anything you feel,
And just roam on.

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