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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: March 25, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 25, 2009



They say I am going insane for what I say

Talking about god like they know much

As I study human nature I understand our desire to be rewarded and punished for our misdeeds

Can’t explain how it feels to find out the truth about the world

God is the no-thing in itself the nothing because he is the everything: so I have called it infinite possibilities

To whom do I pray for strength and courage?

Is prayer not a reminder to myself of the things which might just be helpful?

I write few lines now and then, hoping to create my way of life, but before it all I agree I want to be independent but not free

Some are as crazy as to think money is all there is

Do I really need the sexiest wife and a car?

No! All I need is a smile on my face seeing how I am being loved trough the love I am giving away

Is love then a feeling? No and yes but the real love is a way of life where you and I can find the middle line

I am simply a man! Yeah that’s what they say

I am spirit and see how I am born

The result of imagination and a desire to exist detached from that imagination

So god is all man can think of

Is man a dream? Possibly A dream with potential to have a dream?

Those are things we can’t truly grasp

 But let us then stand on top

Asking the questions is becoming like god

Painful it might be but helpful it is for then our life takes form according to the questions and the choices we make

The good die young

Simply for having asked

If I could I would take you all in my house

So I am calling you out of your closet and let us build our world

The older generation is trying to build us instead of letting us live

So many wars, and we are the victims

Yes! Victim because it is a choice we have made

By the time we wake up so shall the world find forever the greatness of what we are

Physically, spiritually and emotionally raped: this is what we are

Go to school, do better than Tom: this is what my fucked up father is all about

Love your mum, get married to Mary: that’s what that’s fucked bitch I call mother is all about

I want to write a little poetry, lifting spirits up, taking my house and making it into a studio, singing a love song, calling all out to be one, forsaking a god who ask me to do nothing, reminding myself that he is the one who told Abraham to walk ahead of him and be blameless

So many traditions and so many fucked wars

Does everybody tell me why the good die young?

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