It's been a while since I've posted any silly poetry, so here's a poem I wrote last month:

I often get confused with the writings of Descartes
with Sartre, Nietzsche- philosophers of existential art.
Their ruminations are too stiff and long-winded to read
I'll be not in their school of thought with referential creeds.

Far too much time they used to spend on silly rumination
and intellectual treatise bred of self-infatuation
"An object's own existence is a purely Boolean state;
the meaning of an object often calls for some debate."

"So what," I oft think to myself, "who cares? It's all the same."
I'd rather spend my time on things I think are far less lame.
The one thing I agree about, while gazing at the steeple
as Sartre phrased so naturally, "Hell is other people."

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