Violence,

they say

is a form of creation.

Through destruction

we find beauty;

sigh unseen.

The greatest art-brut to ever slumber,

and the strangest prose ever to be written.

I find no solace in destruction.

Oneness evades me in the act,

creation fares no better.

(it just leaves you dried out in the end).

The philosophers tell us

there is no existence

without purpose.

But what,

is so wrong with simply

existing?