The problem with faith, scratch that,
MY problem with faith, I guess I'd say,
it's the attitude, the manner of the people
who have it. Now, let me preface this,
I don't speak to all people of faith, cause
I know some ain't this way, but I know
people, and am friends with those who are.
And that is who I speak to.

Now I don't mind the faithful who
don't shout it out loud, or wave it
like a flag-bearer. Those who believe,
those who dream, and keep to themselves,
that's a faith that I can respect, won't shelf.
Even if it's not for me, I won't tell them
that they wrong for what they think.
Yet, there are others who trouble me so.

Certain people of faith, they wear it like
a sticker, or a badge of honor, and sure,
maybe it's something to be proud of,
something to take joy or glee in,
but whether they know it or don't,
it carries an implication I can't ignore.

Their faith is a way of lording over you,
a way they can say, "I'm better than you".
Even with the best of intentions they may have,
a desire to make you as good as they feel,
it's still just a wall that divides me and them.

Or, rather, a fence that they can sit on,
and still be above me, feeling so self-superior.
It leaves me feeling weak and depressed,
to feel like my friends think they're so much better,
just because they believe in a higher power
in something above that I just don't share.

They always want to try and preach to me,
try and convert me, like I'm just a check
to be marked, a mark to be had, I draw
that line in the sand. I don't want to hear
it, even if they mean well, but still, they continue.
And so I find myself forced to yell, and like that,
I'm the bad guy who needs to apologize
instead of the victim who had been forced upon.

Perhaps they can't really be blamed
for being this way, for thinking this way.
As far as they see it, they just sharing the message,
spreading gospel for the betterment of all.
They want me, and people like me, to join 'em above,
to live that life immortal, life immemorial .

But I can't buy, just because they selling,
I can't take what they be giving because
it don't work for me, it don't jive with me.
It's not a system I can comply with, beliefs
that I can fly with. I respect the faithful,
and the good that it lets them do, but
I don't respect the way they shove
it down my throat like a bad pill.

It's something too tough to swallow
even with a glass of water to wash it down,
it makes me angry and want to shout.
Maybe that's why I get so defensive when
I feel like I'm being preached to.
Because deep down, it feels like an excuse to
be talked down to, and I just have to take it,
or else I'm heinous, speaking heresy, blasphemy,
or just being plain disrespectful to them.

Now, faith folk, don't get up in arms,
don't raise your red cups up in anger.

Don't take this as a condemnation,
or some kind of vilification,
when really it's just conjugation,
or, rather, venting my frustration.

These demons inside of me
don't leave me alone,
or give me a break,
the only break they want
is the break of my soul.

They're always at my neck,
behind my back, waiting,
for a moment when I slip
and let them in to win.
I see 'em when I wake,
walk, but when I'm dreaming
is when they the most active.
The one I met last was a doozy,
a lady known as the Sorrow.

Now sadness comes in many forms,
loud and moaning, or low
and groaning, and all facets
in between. The Sorrow I met
had a low, choking sob
that came from the throat.

That was what I first sensed,
before I spotted any visual.
As I explored the dream-domain,
I found nothing of note,
in that blue-tinted room
of white squared tiles.

It was a clean space, yes,
but it was more sterile than
anything and with nothing to show,
it felt like emptiness given form.

So it didn't take me long
to track that weeping sound,
and find the only other figure
present within the mess of tiles,
a humanesque form lying on
the cold, featureless ground.

She was crying to herself,
so I couldn't see her features,
and her hair covered her too,
like some kind of shroud from
the world and its sadness.

What I could spot was a skin
that was tinted blue, lightly
so and partially faded too.
Her clothes were long and modest,
Everything about her seemed
to project an image of a cocoon,
a cover to hide under from the
ways of our world, weighing her down.

I felt an awful pity for the woman,
never was I one to take joy in
others pain or misery. This girl
was a stranger, but stranger, I
felt an empathy towards her.

Even though I stood right above,
and had been watching for a bit,
she didn't seem to know I was there.
I called to her, without a name to call,
and still, she ignored me, still weeping.
Uneasy I did feel, wondering what
I should do or if I should just go.
Who was I to bother her in this state?

I didn't even know how I'd help,
it's not like I was an expert on grief,
but still, I wanted to give her relief.
So I lightly poked down at her shoulder,
hoping to at last her attention.

After a few moments, she moved,
at least acknowledging my action.
She seemed surprised and stunned,
and so it took her a minute to respond.
Slowly she switched her head up to me.
She slipped her hands from her face,
and moved her hair out as well,
finally removing that natural veil.

For a moment, I was the one stunned.
Seeing her face clear, now, I was
shocked. Her face was actually my face,
my features her features. Except she
wore an expression of unenviable sadness.
A misery that belied the weight of
her sorrow. It was a sorrow at once
I could feel.

For it was my sorrow as well. All
of life's weights crushed onto me
at that moment, all of the pain,
all of the misfortune that I had
to deal with and get over came back
all at once with great fury and force.

Every time I ever cried out,
or felt like all I could do was
be miserable and alone, or
that all my life's goals would
amount to nothing and I'd die,
not a blip on anyone's radar.

That was what fueled the Sorrow,
what gave her life and form,
what motivated her mission
of making me feel as empty
as she felt, as forlorn as she was.

Like true sorrow, it stopped me.
I could no longer move, these rocks
keeping me grounded much like her.
Soon, I was crying just like her.

Two mirror images of misery,
connected and reflected side-by-side.

When I finally awoke from the vision,
tears had stained my pillow moist.

Where did you go,
leaving me so low?
One day you were here,
and now you are gone.
Why did you leave,
and when will you return?

Didn't we have fun?
Don't you recall those
warm summer mornings
spent together with
a toast and a tea?

Or those nights we spent
under the covers, living
like lovers, with no one
watching or wondering?

Or those times you
sat and read Joyce
while I listened to
the sound of your voice?

You always wanted to write,
see, I remember it like it
were yesterday. I wasn't
one for reading, but I
always read your stories.

Weren't we happy?
I know I was.
Didn't you agree,
or did I not notice
the way you really felt?

When I was smiling,
I never saw your
sadness or regret.
Was it there plainly?
Or did you hide it
like a cursed treasure?

I loved you so,
so where did you go?

Is it a place for my eyes,
a place that I can find you?
Is it our place, under
that old oak tree?
Or is it somewhere far
and away from me?
A place you had left behind.

Did you really hate me so,
that you had to run away
without saying a word?
A goodbye or a letter,
a picture or a note,
something would have
been nice to scribble down
in the notebook of my mind.

At least I'd know then,
what I did wrong, and
why you left me alone.
Instead I'm left asking,
where did you go?

I can't deny or dismiss,
this feeling of loneliness,
or the way it creeps in,
when I try to go to sleep.

Shadows on the wall,
shadows down the hall,
feels like I'm always alone,
and it's all I've ever known.

Even when I'm with friends,
I cannot seem to make amends,
with the pain that I feel inside,
no matter how hard I try to hide.

Loneliness seems to affect
me, causing a disconnect,
between my friends and me,
it's something they can't see.

Something they can't get,
not that I blame them yet,
the sadness is still there,
this is me laying it bare.

It's just too much to bear,
when it's like they don't care.
It's like I'm a man on Mars,
and they're out among the stars.

We can't connect or relate,
they're all living lives great,
while I'm struggling to keep up,
like some kind of sick keep-away.

Why did they leave me here,
Isolated, crying out in fear?
Did I deserve this horrid fate,
with all this grief on my plate?

Forced to face the masses bare,
forced to feel the crowd's stare,
it's all more than I can take,
an awful feeling I can't shake.

I never did feel more alone,
then among a crowd on my own,
Like an ant among anteaters,
a platoon of people-eaters.

It's hard to love,
hard to trust,
hard to open up,
hard to stay true.

To love is to say, "I give of myself fully",
the good and the bad, the mad and the sad,
the peaks and cliffs, and the valleys and nadirs,
all of that, and more. It says, "I trust you,
and believe you can take it all without judging".

It's like writing down all of you into a book,
and giving it to someone for them to read.
It's not something you would give to anyone,
so imagine that as the gift of your love.

It's opening yourself to pain and rejection,
and wishing and hoping that you won't be let
down, even when it's happened again and again.
It takes more courage than the bravest knight,
to confess your feelings to someone you love.

It's easier to just keep your feelings sealed,
never to tell your honest heart's message,
for fear of feeling failure yet again.
Or easier still to harden your heart's armor,
so that you can never love and never be hurt.

But, please, don't. To love and to be loved
is the most wonderful feeling in all the world,
this I can say to be true. If ever you find,
a lover you love true, then please confess.
Let them know, and don't waste time worrying,
or else they will find someone else who wasn't fearful.

Such was my fate, and so I stay here, sorrowful.
A knight of resignation who couldn't court his princess.

Oh, what I'd do for a bear best friend.
He'd be big and cute and cuddly,
and friendly and huggly, and he'd cheer me
when I was sad, and make me laugh
with his big, bear belly when I was down.

I'd want a big, brown bear buddy,
who stood about 10 foot tall
and wouldn't let big, bad bullies
beat me up and make me feel sad.

We could play videogames together,
and eat lots of snacks and candy,
and I wouldn't mind when he ate
more than me. After all, he's a big bear,
who needs to fill his tummy.

He'd let me ride on his back,
and take me to all kinds of places,
like up a tree, or in a cave, but
I wouldn't be scared of bats or rats,
since he'd be there to protect me.

And I'd show him stuff too,
like my prized marble collection,
or the art I did for my class that
the teacher didn't really like, but
I know he'd love it just 'cause I made it.

He'd be nice and polite, but also
fun and cool, and just the best!
Oh, what fun it would be to
have my very own best bear buddy.

Every thought that has ever been thought,
has been said in one form or another.
We have cliches just to describe cliches.
"There is nothing new under the sun".

It is a challenge to say anything new,
or to express any truly original idea.
And likely, if you could do just that,
it would hold little relevance or worth.

"I love you like lamps love electricity".
Sure, no one has likely ever said this,
but what does it mean? What wit is
expressed herein? See what I mean?

So it is the storyteller's quest eternal,
to find the words to express the thoughts
that will touch a person's open heart,
and cause them to feel feelings unfelt.

How can they fulfill this noble duty,
when cliches are so prevalent, and
to be truly original is to be nonsensical,
and life is like a box of chocolates?

It's not an easy question to answer,
but I have pondered and thought,
and here is what I found myself thinking.
The storyteller's plight can be solved.

They must find a rightful balance,
between novelty and well-worn tradition.
The trick of the tale is to say something old
in a unique and distinctive way.

For what every person has is their own voice,
that is something that cannot be duplicated.
The trick is not to say a hundred different things,
but rather, say one thing in a hundred ways.

Each and every person can put their own spin
on those well-worn homilies, or bland bromides,
to make them new and exciting once more,
and speak to that thing called the human condition.