It Feels Like a System

I hate the system.
I love the system.
What is this system
I love and I hate?

I really don’t know
what this system could be.
I really don’t know
if a system is there.
Is there a system?
Do you think there’s a system?
It feels like a system.
Can I trust what I feel?

I have to wonder
if the system is real,
and if it is, is it feeling trapped,
locked in a system?
Does it feel caught?
Systematized?
And is the damned system
a system that’s me?
And if I’m the system
how in the name of what’s holy and not
did that ever come to be?

Am I a process?
Am I a scheme;
a principled method
of ordered relations
randomly made,
born of a whim
from a universe crazy
for joining up parts,
like joining up dots
to see what they make
on a dreary and dull rainy day?

And if that’s what I am,
if I am the system,
a system I hate,
a system I love,
what is the reason?
What is the point?
Why am I a system
I love and I hate?

It sure feels like a system.
Do you think it’s a system,
or just a confusion
of muscle called brain?

April 16, 2017

This is a typical Bill poem. I don’t know why I like writing this way, the rhythm and the repetition. But I do. This is what I wrote today for the PAD Challenge.