A poem about the different meanings of swinging, the restrictions on how we see the world because of who we are, and some personal reflective feelings based on those types of "swinging".

Some things

you look at two ways.

Some things

look different to




To someone in love,

swinging is

the swaying of a suspended bench

through the spring air

with flower pastels adorning the bright green landscape

below a clear blue sky.

To someone heartbroken,

swinging is

the afterthought of a noose,

the swaying of a hanging body

punished for a crime

that body did not commit.

The minuscule motion after the trapdoor


and the rope

constricts your neck.

What is life but perspective?

Seeing through different lenses-

Feeling another grasp.

Another texture.

Feeling tears where some feel none.

The human condition is our difference.

Different eyes.

Different colors.



Those colorblind will never see

what I see.

They will know no different.



Maybe I am colorblind and they are not?

I will never know.

And why ask?

Why ask for purpose?


If I even receive an answer,

it will surely be


the purpose of life is

to ask what the purpose of life is.

Living in this web of confusion.

I am swinging.

On a playground swing.

Asking these immortal questions.

I am swinging.

A pocket-watch in front of your eyes.

Playing with your brain.

I am swinging.

From jungle vines.

Taking in the beauty.

I am swinging.

On a suspended bench.

Breathing happiness.

I am swinging.

From a cold noose.

From a rough noose.

From a tight noose.

From a metaphorical noose.

A symbolic noose.

A terrible noose.

A deathly noose.

I am swinging.

From a fateful noose.

With no answers.

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