Life, according to PurpleSpider1, is not one thing but a heap of small disappointments that somehow add up to something worth keeping. The title does two jobs at once. Read as "it's life," it is a shrug, the sort of thing you say when the candy rolls under the couch. Read as "its life," it gives the poem a mysterious "it" whose life is being described. The poem never names its subject in the body, so the title carries that weight, and everything that follows is a list of comparisons for what living feels like. The poem tells us nothing about the writer beyond the username, so the text has to do all the work, and it does so with more shape than its casual surface suggests.
The first images arrive in pairs: a comparison, then a flaw. The roller coaster promises thrills, but "everyone's throwing up," which turns the ride into a shared misery in which nobody gets off clean. The "sweet candy" is a small, specific loss. It has "fallen under the couch," close enough to see but awkward to reach, and probably dusty by the time you do. The "soft melody" is played "on a banjo," an instrument that usually sounds bright and twangy, so the gentleness is slightly undercut. That is my reading, but the mismatch between "soft" and "banjo" does give the line a wry, off-balance feel.
The friend and the chair are the emotional centre. "A friend, / That leaves when you fall down" is the bitterest line, because it describes someone who vanishes at exactly the moment they are needed. The chair "with one leg shorter then the others" is the most physical image. Anyone who has sat on one knows the small, constant rocking, a discomfort too minor to complain about and too persistent to ignore. Then the poem shifts register: "If it was a video game, / It would be dark soul." The conditional "if" breaks the run of "Its a..." statements, and the image has no explanatory clause at all, as if the name were enough. It presumably nods to the Dark Souls games, which are known for punishing difficulty. The word "soul" also adds a faint weight that the rest of the list lacks.
None of this rhymes, and there is no steady meter. The lines are short and run at the pace of speech. What gives the poem its music is syntax. Each pair follows the same pattern, a noun followed by a clause beginning "Where," "That," "Being" or "With," so the ear learns the rhythm and expects it. The missing end punctuation and the informal spellings ("Its," "Thats," "then" for "than") make the voice sound like someone talking, not performing. That suits a poem whose images come from couches, candy and video games.
The turn comes with "Even when its all these things." From here the poem repeats "still," and the repetition is where the meaning sits. The recap quietly drops the damage. The roller coaster is "still a roller coaster," with no one throwing up. The candy is just sweet candy again, with no couch. The melody loses its banjo. The wobbly chair becomes "a chair to rest on," so the same object that was a nuisance is now a place of relief. The friend loses the clause about leaving. The video game vanishes entirely, which might suggest that the unbeatable, punishing side of life is the one thing the speaker cannot reframe. That is a guess, but the omission is hard to miss.
The final line, "And its still a friend," ends the poem on the word that earlier carried its sharpest hurt. The ending is open. Perhaps life is the friend that does not leave, or perhaps the speaker has decided to call it a friend despite everything. The poem does not say, and that restraint keeps the ending from sounding like a slogan.
What makes the poem worth reading is the movement it manages in eighteen short lines, from complaint to a kind of earned acceptance. It does not deny that life makes you queasy, drops your sweets and wobbles under you. It insists only that these things sit alongside the sweetness, the music and the rest. The unpolished voice helps, because the comfort comes from someone who has listed the problems honestly first.