Blood pumps through my veins,
Endorphins, and the whole muck,
And my uninspired foolishness,
Is dragging me down, and pulling these reigns.
And is it the chemicals, or is it me,
Is there a difference?
Am I me,
Is there a me,
Or a you,
Or simple coincidence,
In the infiniteness,
That exists between us two.
Who, am I?
An uncanny mix of everything that can go wrong,
In the infinitesimal entropy of the universe,
Decaying, inevitably, as it should,
A machine at work, or something more?
Where does blood come from, and is it mine?
Is it yours?
Is there a reason it’s distinguishable from any two,
From me and you,
Is there a reason for it all,
Are we a machine? Are our fates inevitable?
Are our lives determined before all our firsts,
And if that’s the case, what’s the point?