What Does It Mean?

These words whose neurons hurdled synapses from brain to hand in a neuromuscular steeplechase, any step potential disaster, what do they mean, resting calmly now together, black, on white paper? Are they our manifesto, our demands of life, our dreams made real from subconscious haze, our secrets, rendered abstract for the sake of disguise? Or is the result, our poem, simply akin to a great ape banging on a keyboard, haphazard, oblivious to intent or result, but feeling groovy? Does it really matter what it means, that it might summon up different interpretations to different viewers? Do we ever completely understand what we put on paper any more than we understand our other actions? In the end these words, stripped of intent or interpretation, are us, and that is why they matter.