The futility of being fertile
When maternal instincts exist none
The uselessness of being useful
When you're not expected to contribute
The pointlessness of being pontifical
When nobody is even paying attention
Mean what you say for your saying to have meaning
That's what everybody says
But everybody also says what they don't mean sometimes
And that's okay
As long as when you're saying what you don't mean, that doesn't mean anything to you
Because of whom you're saying it to
Or why you're saying it at all
Do mosquitoes poop?
Do cows jump?
Do vegan babies breastfeed?
Or, the more logical question, do vegan moms breastfeed their newborns?
I like to be
In the comfort of what my nose knows
The smell of soap
The passing wafts of salt filled waves
Perfumes from people walking by I can never place
But smell so familiar
A chain of thought is lost
Because thoughts are unchained
One needs to anchor them to the front and center of the mind
Sometimes so fiercely that the fear of it being forgotten forever consumes your whole being
No matter you have a slow walker in your path
Waddling almost like a penguin with feet spread wide
You're going to circumnavigate the poor bulk of the fellow
You're going to merely glance at the sweet natured sleeping dog
You will hastily scrabble for keys
Until the thought is set free
Mightily typed out with stubby fingers
Right there, free for the world to read
But is it really free outside of the mind?
Or better forgotten, never to be recalled again?
Even if the thought is a silly little sentence with a pun about a nose
I think about lines and pencils gliding on paper especially when I am counting sheep
Sometimes two, or three
Pencils, not sheep
Sometimes I'll add 7 with varying thicknesses
And it always makes me sad when I realise, or shall I say, decide
That the parallel lines never meet