What’s The Plan?
So what’s the plan?
Well, there’s no plan.
Wanderers, weirdoes, misfits,
we don’t plan, hell, we can’t do it.
It’s all already decided, we follow the flow
Oh no, it’s not exhausting.
It’s calming infact.
Because we can’t bring ourselves
to snooze under the gorgeous moon.
We the charioteers of abstractions
that are broken yet beautiful.
We, the mad tribe, shudder
When a star falls
on an incomplete poem
And we, who paint with black coffee
For hours, seeking nothing.
No idea, no form.
This nothingness is our meaning
We are the meaning we seek.
What? How do we manage our time?
We don’t. It manages us.
The clock is one magnanimous abyss
With no bottom. We deep dive.
The layers melt one after the other
Our core is brutally exposed
The rough edges make us bleed.
But we go on breaking patterns
With no plans, whatsoever.