as much as i admire
the writings of camus
his justification
for making coffee
instead of killing himself
feels as empty as
trying to live
every moment in
an act of rebellion
perhaps had he
lived in a different age
away from the wars
he would have seen
the cage of existence
often tinged by despots
was no less a prison
in moments of peace
that the freedoms he
swore upon were
tissue paper hopes
in a storm of reality
like so many philosophers
he thought too much
on the myth of god
even as he swore
absurd was diving deeply
into life’s problems
without consdieration
for an ounce of faith
the allure of snake oil
is the search for a cure
as his words were taken
into a sort of religion
all on its own

some days i wonder
if i should make coffee
or kill myself
usually after caffeination
i become preoccupied
with other thoughts
the one thing we agree on
being finding happiness
in the increments of living
but i find the loopholes
of casual causal thought
to be redundant
no one makes me think
quite like old albert
but no one makes me
fling a book across the room
like him either
perhaps that is what he
was trying to instill
an act of rebellion
even if it is against
the man handing out
torches and pitchforks
i don’t really know
but i know i dislike
all of the contradictions
so i pray with middle fingers
fully extended and teeth bare
daring anything to answer
as i daydream about her
while the coffee drips
and thoughts of suicide
are replaced with flowers