This is a log of most of the poetry I've written.

Anyone can be involved in any logical discussion, experience isn't necessary in debates of pure fact,
but in places where the fact is hidden under layers of experience or obscured through a endless series of abstractions,
the "anyones" become monkeys on a typewriter, constantly trying to break through the logic which is not explicitely layed out.
they try every combination already tried, forge the entirety of the population of memes who destroy the foundation being argued upon,
Alas, these are monkeys who are probably wasting their time, as explaining the logic to how we got here will outlive the length that the conversation is interesting for.

I fear that I become a monkey sometimes.

There once was a machine,
and the machine did go,
and go did the machine—
sans ebb, sans flow.

It gave them everything they need;
they only live with the machine.
There's nothing left for those who leave,
There's nothing left for those who dream.

And then one day,
it became very hot...
Someone left the machine!
Someone finally took their shot!

But for him, it was too late,
and for the rest, it sealed their fate,
as there is no where     left    to        hop
when   the         machine
        
                                       slowly
        

        

        
                                                               stops.
        

My two axioms—
blissfully eccentric; and,
brutally aware.