Can I sing while crying?
Does that mean sorrow and joy can’t coexist?
Can I build my house out on the fringes of the universe?
Does that mean I am no more human?
Can I build a house without doors?
Does that mean I will never feel like a prisoner?
Can I build a house without light bulbs?
Does that mean I will live in darkness always?
Can I wake up every morning with my eyes closed?
Does that mean I am still lost to reality?
Can I eat with my mouth closed?
Does that mean I am not enjoying the meal?
Can I walk about with a heavy countenance?
Does that mean I am not a happy soul?
Can I work with a light heart?
Does that mean I have no passion?
Can I work without overtime?
Does that mean my business will not grow?
Can I enjoy a happy meal at home at night?
Does that mean I have no burdens?
Can I lead a quiet life alone in my house at night?
Does that mean I am a lonely soul?
Can I sleep off with my eyes open?
Does that mean I am an insomniac?
P.S.: I know things aren’t always what they seem; but, please kind Creator, help me see the truth, and keep my world revolving steadily around you even if there be earthquakes all over it.
Am I allowed to pray like this on wordpress.com?
Or does that mean I am a religious bigot?
English: Marshland, Cant Hills A marsh and pool in Cant Hills Plantation (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I walked to the shore with the only bucket I inherited in my life
To gather and carry the sand to my building site by the marshland
Spoon by spoon, since the day I was born on this shore
Till I thankfully had enough sand heaps to finish my house
Because I couldn’t afford to remain out there by the beach
I shed generous amounts of tears from the pains of my life
To wet and mould the sand on my building site by the marshland
Drop by drop, since the day I stepped on this building site
Till I thankfully had enough sand paste to finish my house
Because I couldn’t afford to languish out here by the marshland
I poured out strength after strength from all of my life
To mould and lay each brick on my building site by the marshland
Brick by brick, since the day I started toiling on this building site
Till I thankfully had enough sand bricks to finish my house
Because I couldn’t afford to die out there by the beach
I finally finished what I set out to do in my life
The climate had been known to be good out in this marshland
I built a fence around my NEW LIFE on this building site
I made the roof and a garden to finish my house
I told all my friends and enemies out by the beach
P.S.: Finally I settled down in peace and sweet relief to my new life
Till the day the rainstorm came and wrecked my life in a new way
And now, all I held on to as my new life wash away slowly and carefully before my eyes
Mormon Gold Plates (Photo credit: More Good Foundation)
If it doesn’t look good, it won’t be called deception.
That nice-looking bandage over that fine piece of hot leg may as well be covering up a festering repugnant sore.
So, what will I do?
I am leaping off my bed
Throwing aside the beddings
In the bright of the day
Only my pajamas on
Running through the doors
Into the street
Bounding through the arrows of a million eyes
Shrinking inwardly from uncertainty and shame
Throwing myself on the beach at the road’s end
Where sits the Healer
Because He said I should come
Because He doesn’t believe in covering up dross with gloss
Because gold-plated clay never lasts
Because He can deal thoroughly with the sore
Because good acts can’t redeem the dark soul
Because noble emotions can’t re-brand the weak will
Because sheer muscle power can’t deliver the failing heart
Because He can save the dark misty soul
From my complacency…
Against my comforts…
In the wake of truth and discovery…
Just as I am…
Away from where I had been…
Out in the vulnerable openness…
Against my pretences, image-protection and “good” name; and external constraints…
At the foot of the Healer…
All because He called me out.
Gold-paint all you want,
It doesn’t change the that clay at the centre.
Writing without any thought in mind
Oh! And also none of my usual muses is present
So I am just typing
About hate and sickness
About life and love
About how we live our lives on the surface
About how we sleep and never wake up from the lies that have sedated us
About happiness and success
About victory and failure
About writing and what it takes to be a writer
About reality and illusions
I am typing not from my consciousness
Unedited and unabridged
I wonder how many readers are subconsciously psychoanalysing me
Good luck with that
You don’t think I have tried free association and thematic apperception tests on myself
P.S.: Now back to my usual self, I looked over the above and it seemed meaningless to me.
Well, I did write it without any thoughts.
If the above were a form of psychological testing, what would that imply?
I like doing something unconventional, though possibly risky and stupid?
I believe you NEEED a muse to write SOMETHING?
I am concerned about the sad issues of life. Now this is sure, as my writings (poetry or otherwise) have testified to. Matters of hate, sickness, deceptions and illusions we surround ourselves with come to mind a lot.
I am always hoping that many more people will come to experience truth, life, real love, happiness as they connect with the only person who gives life any semblance of sanity and well-being. That would be the Christ. This again is true.
I am crazy about writing?
I am conscious of people observing me and talking about me –like paranoid?
I like playing mind games with people?
I like psychoanalysing myself?
Oh the many things we don’t know about ourselves, but our writings about even remote topics show about us!
This is not poetry, and the words have no deep dark meanings…
Most times, I feel
Like I am living in two bodies:
One is always on a long road,
Moving fast and free;
Feeling very o-kay,
Moving on the border of two worlds –
The seen and the unseen.
The other changes locations and experiences –
For instance, now,
It is sitting on a chair writing,
Tommy-full and wearily bobbing head to music.
P.S.: Other times, I just don’t quite know what’s up!