The Algebra of Being 

  
Here’s a quick existential poem. Most poets spend weeks on each poem, but I spent 5 minutes so don’t get too excited. It was a fun moment in the day, though. 

 The Algebra of Being

 But mommy, who made God?

If you made me and God made you

How did God emerge from the blue?

Was it Descartes, the tactful Franc who split us all in two?

Or did God have a mommy 

Like I have you?

Am I real, mommy? And are you, too? 

Is the universe just a mainframe that’s been hacked into?

Is the world just math, an equation with rules?

Did math create being? Is physics the tool 

that built existence from space and molecules?

Is love just a formation of lumber and screws?

Can the deadness of space ponder or choose?

Does the world exist because it has to?

Or does it bother existing 

Just to amuse? 

Mommy, why?!

Why so confused that I can’t understand what you wanted to prove?!

Is existing a choice that a god had came to?

Or the algebra of being self contained and consumed?

If you made me and God made you

Who made God, mommy?

Who, mommy?

Who?

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