#Casual

There's no worse sentence

than one what starts with the words

"I'm not racist, but..."

Iceage

Oh how you've been clinging to those icy grips

like languishing leaves lost among litter.

The weather, it tries its best to warn you

you'd be left directionless and bitter.

That's not to say it's cold all of the time

but rather a sudden forecasted front

and what meteorologists once said;

they'd now rather not be taking that punt.

The forecast's grim; but at least not for him

who's walking around in shorts and a vest.

His happiness shows, for he really knows

he's on the cold Earth only as a guest.

And when the ice melts, he'll swim in the flood

and when he's drowning he'll say "it is good".

Pre-Determined Free-Will

There is a finality and determinism

                              to life that we struggle to describe

                                                             as under the control of our will;

                                                              our choice.

This is true to a certain extent.

                            There is a huge element of cause and effect

                                                             that gives us our many variations

                                                             of lives.

Our choices determine who we are, and

                             what becomes of us as people, yet

                                                            these choices are constricted in the

                                                            confines of fate.

One needs context in order to feel, so the first

                             life would feel nothing, for it had nothing

                                                            to compare to; meaning is ordained from

                                                            prior life.

We are predetermined by our genetic makeup

                                 and by a history of what we 

                                                           at least perceive as free choices; what we're

                                                           programmed to do.

The human life has been set by fate to have a

                                 spring, summer, autumn, winter. This is unavoidable

                                                          unless we ripped out pages from

                                                          life's calendar.

But we can never choose
                                 that the next season should not fall;
                                                         delay it and prepare for it
                                                         though we might.

Our free will determines what happens 

                               with these seasons, just as our choices

                                                         help to bring some seasons to be longer

                                                         than others.

The more free-will we get, the more

                              this global warming effect will occur,

                                                        not only in meteorological seasons but in this

                                                        issue of will.

In order to best attain a credible

                              existence, we must become autonomous

                                                         beings and allow fate to direct us through seasons

                                                         as prescribed for us.

We should not fall foul on the path

                              of choice, for choice blinds us

                                                          into the narcissistic notion that

                                                          we are free.

Whether we are free or not

                              is ultimately an otiose debate

                                                         for we only found out both sides by both

                                                        choice and fate.

Cans

Home is where the heart is

or so I have been told

but it isn't the ones out on the streets

whose hearts are empty and cold.

Hungry and not heartless

not harmful, but hurting;

so their heinous criminalisation

is more than disconcerting.

And yet they're swept away

like empty cider cans,

dropped by ones not labelled for addictions;

dropped by privileged hands.

No-one's there to pick them up,

 they all just walk straight past

for they degrade this depressing city

and are looked upon as trash.

But don't throw them away,

recycling needs some sorting;

for every sorry state we find a use

with the right supporting.

See a can? Pick it up!

Put it where it belongs -

we should be looking for the good we can do,

not ignoring all that's wrong.

The Rat

The rat willed for refuge

from the chambers in the sewers,

crowded everywhere that it went.

Away from the refuse

and negativity that skewers

all of the time it has spent.

So it indecisively sought

a solitary space of its own,

but not one single section could it find.

Instead it was caught

by the reality that was thrown

that it was trapped in the tunnels of its mind.