My life is filled with pain, and light hides away from me.
I awake to anguish and only angst of my soul greets me.
Hope has proved herself an invention of imagination - - I look for her, but she never reveals even a hair.
Like the wind, she echoes around but never penetrates my being.
I am like a mongrel dog seeking food even from the refuse bags - - always seeking but never finding.
I lament a sorrowful song for myself for no one comes to comfort my aching soul. My soul is like the ever-thirsty desert soil that is ever ready for rain.
It hungers and thirsts but is put to shame with each passing moment.
My life is filled with sorrow, and unlike a caged bird, I cannot sing.
Like a seedling at the mercy of the heavens; the scorching sun and watering clouds, so is my soul at the mercy of my deliverer.
I await an arrival that if made manifest, offers eternal hope.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
I must learn to let go and move forward.
But though my past holds flaws it also holds my treasures.
Will I ever see them again, or is this a sacrifice all [must] make for greater heights?
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
O mortal man, what a pitiful creature you are!
A man is bound no matter how he looks at it.
The sinner is plagued by his sins. Each condemn him and he wonders if there is any hope for him.
The righteous is constantly tested to see if his faith is genuine and if his heart is resolved.
Welcome to planet earth, o mortal men, where the games begin that establish my destiny and yours.
Welcome to planet earth, o mortal men, where grey is a fallacy and only white and black exist.
Day bring day and night brings night. Work brings more work but is rest ever found?
You come with nothing and will leave with nothing, yet all work so hard for that which will disintegrate or be lost.
You smile and let go and sleep and ignore that outside this realm eternity will be explored.
You insult and detest, man’s only source of rest and thank a lost man for unearthing an idea that vomits on the living door.
Bye bye bound and mortal man, here on this detestable and fallen world, for as for me I gave in to the plea of the risen King.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
My thoughts are so distant, can anyone scale them?
They are deep and high and beyond any man’s limit.
They portray the richness of my soul and the light that makes me dance.
My thoughts are so unique they astound my very self.
Such is the structure of my being; the uniqueness found only in me.
Akin perhaps is the core, found only in writers and poets of old.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Yesterday I saw an old woman sitting by a pond. She was alone, looking at the water in deep thought. I thought to myself, “Once she was me.” Once she loved someone; once she was happy about something I once was happy of and once she was saddened about something that once saddened me. I wondered, what she was pondering. Was she thinking about the concluding chapters in her life, or the decisions she made in her life. Was she thinking about Ben, whom she met at fifteen, or Thomas who would later marry her at twenty-five? If she were to give me advice, what would it be? Would she have said, “Follow you dreams”, or perhaps “Live life to its fullest”? She barely made any gestures as she was pondering that which my being craved to perceive. Without turning to me, she said, “Maybe a greater thing will happen, maybe you’ll pull through.” This is a story of a woman I met on a certain day, at a certain spot. All I know is that whatever she was pondering was rich and not mediocre. Whatever lost her, whatever made her gaze at the gently moving water was of worth. By merely looking at her looking away, I too became lost, lost to realms that exist above our own in distant lands. I saw the beauty of age, for the first time, through this woman. I will always remember her and may she always remember me. I will name her, The White Haired Princess of Distant Lands, lands that exist within the soul and beyond the visible stars.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Suppress your own will, so as not to shatter the unity of the group.
The wives job is to manage the family accounts within the limits of her husband's salary, to bring up healthy children and create an environment in which it is easy for her husband to get on with his work.
The society seeks not to find out what life is, but seeks to fulfill it.
Its citizens hearts are founded on loyalty to the workplace and to society.
Their philosophy is a man's work is his life. You simply do it...
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
When the dry eastern wind raises the dust,
The northern Scottish breeze sways the grass,
Where the pasture and desert meet, the fulfillment of cultivating is met.
Where the man and the woman meet, the very ground shall be covered with scattered weeds, for she will bring the snow, and he will bring the shovel.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
The son makes the father proud. The son sees what the father does and imitates him. As if he doesn't notice, the father chuckles and in his heart says, “My son.” The son works to reduce the burden on his father, and the father works hard so as not to overwork his son.
Ah, so I see, the father and the son are indistinguishable; the father and the son are one.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Let’s stay young forever, and feel the vibe.
Let the passion of youth never be extinguished, even if the sun may dim and the stars decline.
Let the hearts of the youth burn each day. Let us always speak of the morning.
Our hearts vibrate to the rhythm of life and our will, may it be to our Creator.
Let each day bring the morning, and may each morning call no noon.
Let the rays of light be one with our being and let and the essence of old our ways.
Live on, you youth, live on, you redeemed, for the sun itself smiles down on you.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
What does a condemned man do? What does a man with no hope look forward to? One might say, “Today is terrible, but I will look forward to tomorrow.” But what use it tomorrow for the condemned? Doesn’t tomorrow bring quickly his dreadful fate? What use is the beauty of the sun or the calm of the breeze upon his face and skin? Are these not splendor’s that will add to his misery; memories that will torment his eternal soul. He does not ask to hear the sounds of joy and gladness, for where he is headed never have these been present. He is headed to the deep below, where the wails overwhelm the senses and hope is a soon forgotten fable strictly uttered by those above. The memory of the sunshine upon his face amplifies his unending anguish; the smell of the common morning air will plague his mind. “What caused such a fate for this man”, asks the world? He did not take heed to that which is written, that if you hear the voice of God today, do not be stubborn as your ancestors were when they rebelled against God. He chose separation from God - - the path that leads to no sunshine.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC