people who live

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'"

- ("On the Road"; Kerouac)


Do we take enough chances? Have enough gut? We, with our little lives, bordering on rules, what's acceptable and what's not, opinions, approvals, chances, money, decorum? I still look at the Thesaurus as I'm writing this. Where's liberty? Create one if it doesn't exist, perhaps you need to. Still hiding in my shell, behind college gates, walls of a supposed home - and what comes next? Where is the thing that needs to be confronted,and what?
Don't be nonplussed when it strikes hard someday, leaving you half broken. Do we risk it and get out intact (I don't guarantee this to be the case 'till the end) or play it safe until the moment of crisis?



Under the carapace,
this weakling
Slimy thing.
Cracked armor, conked out nutshell
Wrecked.
Unsynchronized winds, noxious air
Lured dazed eyes, slimy body
Supervened.
Slithered out
Half-broken.

PS: Feedback(s) on the piece. Thanks.