The measure of suffering is how distant you are from your own happiness. There is no distance farther than that. It’s a gap people carry around with them, sometimes oddly, with pride: ‘Look how long-suffering, look how hard working, Look how good doing I am.’ Small wonder we’re exhausted all of the time.
Because there’s the whole of our lives to account for, to ourselves, To the you who is listening to this. Sure, it’s your hole and you’ll sink in it if you want to But to me, it’s just another drain pipe, a wound for life to drip out of Everyone can see right through you Until you find a way to plug that hole yourself.
I. You are a wonder wrapped in a miracle. Every ebony gasp breeds holiness. Every tincture of time that you hold bursts into purple midnights. Every bright escape another release of your cosmic breath.
II. You rule with satin clouds and shining rain. Your every movement shakes time.
III. You know your greatest magic and will forever prove it to those who rest beneath your raven sky. You are power and grace entwined, you hold on your hands an eternity, and you fully know it's wretched destiny.
I'm trying one of these definition poem thingies. How'd I do?
In my dreams, I see a Prince, His eyes gently glint. Has his Holiness come? I cry to him not all is well. In my loneliness, passion for life has languish. Spirit tainted by sinful spell, I’ve drank the cup of anguish? Will the heart heal? His calm silhouette- caress me with warm zeal. Heaven and Earth embrace as one. In pain, I can survive. Like the radiance of the Sun, I feel my spirit revive.
With the wind, the Prince disappears like pollinated petals. I implore him to reappear. I’m a vulnerable child; afraid to be back in the wild. His voice whispers that it is time to awake. He will not forsake me. One day when I’ve blossom, I’m destine to meet him again. With his holy army, slanderous shadows will flee. With the Prince of Peace, Life’s lamenting will one day cease!
i see a long line made of lunatic, inebriate saints— chanting orisons with their haloes and white robes— racing to the sea screaming and preaching— exchanging blows for the blood of the ******— illuding one another for the salvation they thirst— saying, i am one to ascend the divine nirvana.
am i now a heathen? for orisons should not pierce the ears— yet i am dead sick thus i pray for and on my own— for the guts to try ending the hellish havoc.
and when i finally screamed sets of vile eyes, fangs and weapons— smiled at me.
this is what happened to my country right now. for this one has a sensitive theme to it, i'll leave it to your own interpretation. written for the first prompt 'Halo' of November Hall of Poetry challenge on LINE app.