our nature is futility making love while the war rages on

life is futility
so we do the best we can
with the time we have.

we spend our moments
making comments
on what we are
and where we've been.

you never hear
someone on their
deathbed
say that they wished
they had spent more time
working.

we waste our health
on our jobs
while getting robbed
by taxes
and hidden fees,
hoping to get to
a better place that doesn't
actually exist.

we run into walls
and become misplaced
by all the information we're fed.
we're exterminated by
our desire for more
when we have nothing
to gain
in the first place.

all we can hope
is that we elect the right people
to make the right decisions
at the right time
to make a better future
for those who come
after we're gone.

and that's what we're told:
a better future for future
generations
that will come and go
in the same way we have
only to endure the same
hardships and the same
neglect
we were tortured with
throughout our short
                                  short
                                           lives.

at any minute,
maybe we'll all wake up
and wonder what the fuck has happened
to our happiness,
to our future for future generations,
to our possibilities, and
to our needs.

where have all the good times gone?
maybe they were shrouded in parties
and ignorance cleverly disguised as
innocence.
maybe they never happened at all and
it was nothing but a dream shrouded in
drugs and alcohol and slumber party madness
hoping to get girls who were hoping to get guys
hoping to fuck hoping for a moment to cry
hoping for luck enough to bypass the lies,
hoping to never begin.
hoping to never try.

and the beautiful always seem
to slide through while the rest of us are
ugly.

hope is a cleverly placed flower
in the hand of a secret love,
always waiting for this moment
to arrive.

                 love is a symptom of need,
     hoping to encounter the very moment
           when a connection is made
               and skin mingles with skin
         as the white hot rush of lust
gathers at the point where
           tongues meet for the very
                                                    first
                                                           time.

you'll never hear someone
on their deathbed say
they
wished they had loved less
and hated more.

the stakes are high
in this thing called life,
and no one has ever gotten out alive,
but we try,
no matter the expense,
to win,
to feel the sweet expanse
of the heart
under our shirts
for one last time
before the hammer drops
us
six feet below
the place we started.