I envy the faithful

Those who have a sense of belonging
Those who believe there is meaning and
trust there is no end to this life.

I envy the warmth

Those who feel secure within this world
Those who fear nothing and have everything
planned out for them.

I envy the idea

That there is some cosmic parent
Watching over, loving unconditionally, and
wrapping their believers in a soft, wool blanket.

And there are moments
When I can no longer endure my own existence
Where I hope and I pray and I bargain and I wish
to any greater entity that might hear my whispers in the night

Please just make the pain stop.

There's nothing warm or cozy about contemplating
your own meaningless oblivion,
or realizing you will never again see your dead
friends, family, or pets in a land filled with milk and honey.

I have no comfort in believing
I am special in some cosmic way
I am nothing, you are nothing
sinner, saint, priest, or atheist – we all just become food for the worms.

I believe in love
You, in the god above
I wonder who is more delusional

Somewhere
Out there
A stillness
A darkness
Yet known
A nothingness
Awaits us
And it's better
That way

The purpose of life
Is that it ends
And people
Don't think
About death
Until they're
Forced to

It's true I don't believe in God
Can't say I ever did
It's something that I never questioned, even as a kid
But Santa Claus, now he is real
or at least he used to be
I don't miss God, but I miss the guy who left presents under the tree

There is a girl, and she doesn't believe in the existence of god.

She once told her best-friend that if there is something like BIRTH and DEATH, then there can't be anything like heaven and hell. However, she uses both HEAVEN and HELL as metaphors in her poems for pointing at the good and the bad while
wondering what distinguishes a devil from an angel.

Once someone asked her- “Do you believe in the power of DESTINY?”.
She didn't answer the question and ended up writing a whole essay on the value of HARD WORK while reflecting upon the lives of many who are working hard since ages without any fruition.

One day her grandfather told her that she should have at least some amount of FAITH in her life, even if she doesn't BELIEVE in worshiping any sculptures or images. She told him that the only thing she believes in is his selfless love for her.

She has a closet,
and it's full of secrets and MYSTERIES,
the secret letters of pain and grief, of existential crisis and restless nights.
They were written to someone named as GOD by her ten-year-old self.

Every night she joins her hands and closes her eyes to make a wish and PRAY for the well-being of
the boy who claims to be in love with her.
And every morning when I wake up to look at her face in the mirror, all I could see in front of my eyes is a portrait of an ATHEIST in love.

-Prachi

Purity

Clear water without a hint of discoloring
Free from anything however small floating inside
What is the purity of your kindness
Can goodness be tainted?
Although the outcome is wholesome
Do motivations lessen the good of goodness?

Selfish "Good"

How good is goodness
If goodness is conditional?
If all the good I ever do
Is to get something back
If I neglect those with nothing to offer
And bargain with those who'll do anything for help?
A desperate cry to my ears sounds the same
As coins clinking while they form a pile
As the shuffling of bills
With every "good" deed
My heart races as the weight of debts owed to me grows

Obligatory Goodness

When the pure water of a good act
Is used to put out eternal fire
Done not because I love you
But to appease my angry master
Under threat of hell, how can my motivation remain pure?
If good people is what the master wants
Why even muddy the waters with goodness under threat?
Unless it's not about good people
But about having people that can be controlled
Monopolizing on man's fear of the unknown
To create slaves that will shackle themselves
For the illusion of safety
And to be free of the burden of thinking

The Good Face

How good are good acts
Done merely to preserve an image?
To stay in people's good favors?
To be praised for your selflessness?
Like the good that asks for something in return
And the one that comes from fear
If being good was not rewarded
Would you still seek it out?
You can't help if people praise you
For doing what anyone should
But you can help if that's what drives you
If you save all your goodness for the spotlight

For Goodness Sake

I saw you hurting
Your face was not that of a stranger's
Because although I've never met you
I know you.
You're me, if all our circumstances switched
I'm just as human as you
There are no main characters here
It only feels that way because ours are the only thoughts we hear
But you're no different than me.
We're all only people
But I have the ability to help
And so I will.
I don't need to be seen
I don't need you to repay me
I'm not afraid of any religion's hells
I just have compassion for you, fellow human.
Unconditional love is the heart of pure goodness
The heart of goodness for goodness sake.

Preface
Life is bookended by nothing.
Grasp what nothing truly means.
Nothing is not another form of something.
Nothing is — nothing.



Where were you long ago?
All that time before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.

Perhaps a soul in surplus stock,
A spirit not yet wrought.
Dressed in some heaven’s frock.
No. Not there. You were not.

Then came a twist of fate,
***** and egg were now one.
In this way did they create.
Your life had begun.

So began your book of life,
That in volumes three.
The past, the present,
and the yet to be.

Life is always in the now,
Presents itself as a choice.
Many matters to disavow,
To others, you give a voice.


Life is more than career,
Love is much more dear.
To love another earns its worth,
Makes your mark upon the Earth.

Take the time to stand and stare,
Feel the sun burst in the air.
Enjoy laughs and romance,
Work at love, at every chance.

And when the last word is writ,
There is no more, yet to be.
Life for you did quit,
Not something faced with glee.

At the end, where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.

Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
‘Twixt bookends of eternal dark.


This poem is also on Vimeo
Runs 3:39
https://vimeo.com/432650832