Poetry-44

Jason

Whatever is left, I do not want it. The left overs. Mine. Yours. Theirs. Ours. All of it. I want fresh. No hand me downs. My own and can be addressed as such. How ironic, that this way of thinking prevails and yet, all that we know, as the human race, is inherited. The earth and all that it offers, the genes and composition of these physical vessels and.. Maybe even the soul housed within.. None of it, we can truly call of our own design, but existing within that design, how funny is it that we just search for something to call our own, like wandering vagrants, looking for a reprieve from the truth of our shared existence.

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