"predestination" poems
Some people have faith…
In a God that they can’t see.
They pray and beckon to this being.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people seek out love…
They say it’s all they need.
A notion that can’t be defined.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people seek the truth.
They claim it will set them free.
All too often it brings only pain.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people claim to care.
And they do so unconditionally.
Expecting absolutely nothing in return.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people refute predestination.
Yet believe in destiny.
Fate and free will intertwined.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people outstretch their hands.
When the world leaves them to bleed.
Giving to a world that doesn’t care.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people follow only logic.
Decisions made to a tolerable degree.
Yet logic turns our hearts so cold.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people look for life’s purpose.
Proposing doctrines and various decrees.
That purpose varies from one to the next.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
The world is full of confounds and query.
And in that, I rarely find the answers I seek.
But still, I wonder every day.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Perhaps we need not find an answer.
Perhaps, by nature, we are curious beings.
We need faith, wisdom, truth, and love.
At least, that much, I can see.
But I invite you to justify this world.
Elaborate on the answers I need.
Or maybe life just doesn’t make sense.
I invite you to enlighten me.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
July 18th, 2010.
Those sacred songs suffocated,
when our books were set on fire.
We wasted time.
Worrying about something that wasn't going to happen
for a while.
Anxiety is just the common cold of 2010.
We've spent all of our $
And still there is no cure.
I have a high tolerance.
And you have a hefty load of prescriptions.
So tell me,
which one of us is going to die first?
Predestination does not care.
But the Grim Reaper does.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
I live in the belly of the bully, And that bully is fat and bloated
after eating too much of everyone else’s food without permission. Although he had more than enough to eat and he wasn’t really hungry, he left his island home; and sailed the seven seas to fill his sacks, and bring things back. He pretended to pay, elbowing his way into, through and around their worlds, and because they did not speak English they did not understand his slippery words (and he didn’t learn theirs). With sleight if hand and cannon he subdued then sold their souls to some obscenely wealthy aristocrats back in his island home.
He pushed them into the fields to farm and when they could not lift their arms from starvation he said it was nature’s predestination, so he did not shed a tear and he did not interfere. The natural law was all he saw. That man was very fat and and he was very flawed.
Sean Hunt June 12th
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 6:13 AM UTC
A worst-case-scenario mentality
Breeds emotional nightmares of what-ifs
Methodically feeling the pain in each possibility
Preparing for Hell, knowing it is impractical, improbable, and unkind
Each reaction gauged
Smiles erupt in each better choice
A familiar road traveled often
Lead only by a history of pain
It ebbs and flows, bobs and weaves at will
This reality is organized, easy to understand
Random thought of an unlikely, unfathomable future
**Vivid like a film
Unwavering, persistent
There is no control**ling its outcome
Forced to watch the images forged in a broken mind
Tears burn flesh and a naked heart bleeds
Stop rolling, just...stop
No amount of pleading slows the images
The pain is overwhelming
Far beyond self-inflicted, torturous, methodical thoughts
Uncontrollable, inconsolable
True and real
So very real
There is but one way to stop that future
The one shown in visions of just deserts
The future that smolders through present joy
Preemptive pain is just not an option
I've seen the future my heart has built
**The shards of a shattered soul
Offer no comfort**
My worst-case-scenario was but a benign freckle on the elbow of a body invaded by metastatic melanoma
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
The one created for sabotage
Adored by few
Abhorred by numerous numbers
He treads an eternal sorrow
Which tortures his blighted soul
Scheming against ingenious blueprints
His destiny's been read
By gypsy cherubs
He's learned the path
Trodden by none
His predestination
Answering to this heavy burden
His Father has brought a rebellious notion
No other celestial entity has knowledge
Except for him and his apostles
Agreeing to God's earthly will
To be forever cast into a shadow
Agreeing through pure love
For his Father
And sent to tortuous furnace
Unbeknowst to mortals of seraphic Lucifer's
startling sacrifice
God's grievous banishment of his son
For he only aspired
To become like his Father
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
You said, that I have a heart of gold.
I just smiled because I know that
since the dawn of our time
you have broken it so many times;
shattered it into oodles of pieces
which I tried to repair - time after time,
then it could no longer resemble its true self.
It became something different,
some kind of kintsugi artifact,
something golden, yet something hard:
completely useless for its predestination.
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 1:16 PM UTC
If i'm not a product of my environment,
what defines who I am?
Exactly.
Precisely.
I do not know.
What am I,
without environment?
A matter of circumstance?
Without a ball,
how can I play ball?
Just kicking stones across the landscapes.
Without a concept of the Ocean,
how can I understand the notion?
I only believe in what I see.
I speak English, as my mother tongue -
because I was taught from being born.
If I was born in India, I'd speak Indian,
maybe English too.
Surely this makes me a product of the environment.
How can I know of TV,
but a tribe member knows only of a spear.
What were exposed to is defined by our environment.
Tell me i'm wrong.
Tell me about predestination.
Tell me about the soul if you wish.
I think you missed the point.
If I was born in a cell, I would know only the cell.
I known what I'm shown and that much I can tell,
that i'm surely nothing more than a product of the environment.
Or maybe,
just maybe,
the environment is a product of me too?
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
when self-inflicted
or as counter,
the adrenaline is missing;
mind you the hara-kiri:
the sudden thrill,
the sudden attack!
it paces the heart differently
from a belief in a self...
the heart paces differently,
it's an entire revisionist sub-plot
of the book of genesis;
it almost makes Dante pigeon-shit.
that's the problem with suicide
it's hardly adrenaline ensured
surprising, the predestination of it
being all top surprising as motivational
to provide us a new Cain of the future...
rightfully i'd rather be stunned
into a shock of adrenaline by a murderer,
than by injection of overpowering myself:
the adrenaline missing in suicide
is the real philosophical issue...
the adrenaline missing due to premonition,
the lack of shock... suicide in philosophical
debate is pure chemistry:
to commit suicide is to devolve chemically
without the required boiling points or infusions
of: suddenly.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
So lost is this ship in your ocean
That even the amicable stars
Collude with clouds
—In the frame of the sky
To cloak the referral to my compass,
To keep me from my contrived destination.
Only after rebirth, do I value Earth's opinion,
And know,
That—
'twas not collusion
'twas aspiration,
That I was being guided to my shipwreck
To go deeper in you
Be consumed by you,
O! My predestination!
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 7:12 PM UTC
She thinks if she travels to foreign lands- even if
it is only by dating an ethnic man- that she can
scale the high walls of the borders between what she
was taught and who she hopes she is.
Having followed blindly her predestination programmed life
she can’t resist taking squinted peeks through the
tiny open slits of vision, hoping to find her true self.
“You are losing the faith!” her anxious mother warns
as though to do so would be an inherent flaw,
not a conscious choice.
But Mother’s own faith
has been slipping through her hands for the past
30 years, and only that promised salvation can save
her from the indiscretions that fill the non-rapturous void
left-behind by mister Christian-right-wing-man.
Taught well by mother, father, and god, that men
must be assessed in a purely logical fashion,
“Agree on finances and childrearing and you will
have happily ever.”
But she feels fake, and does not know how
to peel the plastic wrap off her personality.
You can see its bindings in the way her eyes implore you
and how she clasps her hands on her lap by rote.
She is the pink peg in the Hasbro Game of Life car
with guilt trip road blocks, detours and poorly folded
directional maps. Spinning the wheel in search of tour guides:
What should I read? What should I think?
But that only gives her new mind instructors.
Perhaps instead of foreign languages and foreign lands,
the verity lies in the realization that mother
probably feels fake too.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
I believe in predestination like a hard cover
book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe
in imagination unfettered like the wheels
of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting
everything like the teething puppy chewing
all the furniture. I believe in arrangements
like the photographer with no camera. I believe
in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts
into fine powder because of a little tension
in between your fingers. I believe in relevance
like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily
Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe
in economy like Curiosity who found her way
home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier.
I believe in complacency like the larkspur
in love with a promiscuous hummingbird.
I believe in delusion like the saxophone player
who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall
from the subway station.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 9:53 PM UTC
i go through the hollow days
until the first drop of alcohol hits my tongue;
and then, the choice. the concerned mother,
the train-track rumbling stomach, the
"you can't drink any more unless you eat something."
i want to say it's my life. i want to say
that drinking on an empty stomach is far
more cost effective and that i'm here to go
the distance. it's enough for the first
few hours to laugh it off, until the house is closed
up and the oven is on, on, on.
really, it's not my fault. my dad's a chef. i'm human
and i know i'll die if i chastity-lock my lips forever, it's just...
well, there's something in it. there's something
perfect about "no thanks, i'm not hungry,"
like the smiling hollow is earthquake-rumbling:
"yes, yes, yes, one day you will die small."
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 6:53 PM UTC
coffee house is a place where you doubtlessly see all the people being swept away in an invisible connection you can not see--sometimes, there are also some people who get caught in discussion and stuck by diffusion. the coffee that you drink often converts you its energy to analize your life's difficult problematics.
coffee house is a place where you will genuinely feel sane if you see some people reading their own scripts or feel well-earned if you witness the self-interested people--where they hear their own tunes just for themselves, where they do not want to give you the same opportunity for joining them in thrilling your cochlear, even through the air filled with whiff of vapour. vapour which doesn't comprise the fumes of nicotine, but there is just a little amount of caffeine in its womb. however, vapour is vapour. it has its ability to serve you an effect to crave which oftenly makes yourself lose its excuse to refuse.
coffee house, is a place for the people who are looking for identities. coffee house is made for the people who keep analizing the layer by layer of their lives, for the ones who keep hunting the nucleus of your providence's atom, for the people who keep ripping apart their particles. not dalton, neither rutherford, nor thomson, not even bohr, as the ones who might be able to serve you a soup of theory which if you eat it, you might be enlightened and your life might suddenly be well explained. the chaos of your life can not simply be explained that way.
coffee house is a place where you will find the lonely people whose lives will always be tossed around, the people who keep glorifying the fumes of caffeine that can hit you back to the point where you can be boiled by new hopes. and it remains that way all the time.
coffee house is a place for them who are hurt and diseased, but feel like hospitals are not the right house to canalize their moans. precisely, they will find their house here.
in a coffee house, you will learn to be yourself, and you will never find the lesson at all schools.
in a coffee house, you learn how to admit your predestination as the Audience of Lives.
coffee house is a place where you will always find your own cinema seat.
Stefan Sagala,
February 4th 2017.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
I tire of this Patriarchy
The footpaths, The Guidelines
The strict Dogma, The misogynistic guise
I tire of these Sins
The evil manipulation, The father of my fathers
The pleasure of power, The hearts swollen with hate
I tire of this Psychological Harem
The predestination, The pain of letting things go
The image staring back at me, The toxic masculinity
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
I chose the lonely road
The withered willows,
The pockmarked path.
I plunged headlong into defeat.
I chose this road-
Or did it choose me?
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 2:09 PM UTC
I am on the highway
To hell's bells
And I'm pregnant
With devil's anger child
Taking a walk in solipsism park
Smoking some remedy
Breathing from asylum air
And where is he?
He is looking straight through me
And his soul is revealing
Its the cold fire
That is misleading
He is fighting in his sleep again
Hugging his skeletons again
Helpless child
Going for a rage war
Solus
Walking towards the kitchen
On this toes
Taking out all the knives
Counting them
And i know he likes numbers
He looks towards the sky
And the clouds confuses him
He pours out his blood
Drawing the letter A
Repeatedly
Not even obsessively
Justified in his judgement
Him and his vanity
In an alternate reality
Out of proportion
Full of distortion
This ******
And his bluejackets
Anchored me with his diaries
Walking on embers now
In a state of trance now
Makes me wonder
Are monsters born or created?
Mortem predestination
He keeps giving me this psychic vibe
From a foreign tribe
I can't just put a lid on it
I can't just turn my back on it
Run, everybody begged me
But with the beast clothed in human skin tonight
Outside the television Screen
We are wired the same tonight
Dancing to Electro Swing by his side
Tying his tie
And I like it
He reaches out for his wooden telegraph
Can't help but listen
To Maria
And all her chants
Makes him gaze into the same tall building
From that retro piano bench
He gets up
With his hands covered in blood
Summons me by the edge
Two A's drawn on a sketch
Standing by the line
The choice is all mine
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
My patience is exasperated
So negative connotations
Are analytical advice, on a diagram of ******
for life as AnNotation
Used as emphatic confirmation
That my formations deformed,
so be warned, you won't be warmed
by hearing I've conformed
To be socially reborn or Reformed
no Solubility just scorn
Death of Altruism not reborn
My attempt to succeed is Forlorn
****** without pleasure like ****
With an actress who's *****
Unable to reject the amorous nature
Of the advancement taking place
Only to try to post placate
But u can't humorously play hate
That's like calling date ****
a play date, and tho karma may take
Action a day late
It'll subtract your pay rate
And I try to listen when they say wait
Otherwise I Trade faith
For fortune so pray fate
Has Infallibility and acts
With revenge and intends to ignore
Its Sanctification on your behalf
But without assured Omniscience
Or Predestination I'm left
Wit bitter taste from various Mongrels
so nefarious I wish for death
Developing an Aversion to breath
A Discrepancy now remains
Some say lifes a gift and it contradicts
when I say it's inhumane
A reality based on haste purgatory
Where narcissists splurge on glory
And act like a real life purging story
living to fill their urge for gory
Temptations and never hoarding
Desires to control with moderations
like earths resource no Conservation
But this is just my Observation
Or maybe there's no correlation
and I just **** a curation
Maybe my pessimisms Pervasion
Has damaged me for the duration
Of life never to vacation
From my imprisoned state
So internally conflicted I'm eternally
Restricted to unsolicited hate
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
The coldness of my unleashed disinhibitions have gracefully succumbed to the wisdom of cosmological forces, despite my ravenous salivations for all that is vehemently forbidden.
As I bark inside the relief of this solitary pound of articulated and socialised liberty, like an expression of abstract artistry within an ethical mudslide; I continue to teeter upon geographical tightropes which span unforgiving terrains across the ancient divides of propriety, where the baron plains of deuterocanonical origin are populated by restless spirits with gnashing teeth.
So, if they could ever be personified, I could easily butcher a myriad of depravities which tangibly characterise my inner Astarte and Ishtar demons – although, such an event would have to occur after we have engaged in a myriad of abominations where raunchy and indulgent copulations shamefully expose our brazen wantonness to animalistic inclinations.
Never offer to tie me down.
Restriction diametrically opposes my socially skilled yet nomadic being, as it sojourns across a psychedelic array of vibrant gardens, and weaves through present pathways which are timeless in their being.
It just is.
That is the essence of ontology.
Can we ever effectively contemplate the philosophies of predetermination and predestination?
As I am not dichotomous in my thinking, there is a legitimate place for being an omnivore within the walls of our societal fabric.
Although I radically accept that of which I do not approve, the psychology of ambivalence has led me to raise questions around the validity of horticulture.
My clock has melted down the flamboyance of those multicolored mountainsides of being and nothingness.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
They say that when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes in only a matter of seconds.
If that is true,
what if this is just our lives flashing before us?
What if we are just seeing this all happen again... as a memory?
Puritans believe in predestination...
I believe they know that happens and just think they are part of the flashback.
If that is true, can someone tell me why and/or how I am dying right now?
I don't want to die.
I know I have said it, thousands of times, that I'd rather die or be dead, but that isn't true.
I have said I want to **** myself before too.
To tell you the truth, I don't have the ***** to do it.
I can't **** myself.
I have had a knife in my hand trying to stab myself, but I got scared and put it away.
I found a gun once too... held it up to my head... put my finger on the trigger... dropped it.
I tried hanging myself too... that also ended in me not following through.
I can't do it... I won't do it.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
My poetry *****
I've zero *****
To give my art
My empty heart
Devoid of feel
Has no appeal
Toward the sheep
Who watch me weep
A worthless sound
A spring unwound
Potential spent
Becoming bent
Approaching death
Jehovah saith
He shall be ******
The preacher groaned
In deep denial
We must revile
All things defiled
And we deny
That one divine
These horrors binds
Into our lives
As such we try
In faith to live
As we forgive
Ourselves alone
As He atoned
For us, but you
He would not do
Predestination
An invitation
You can't take
Unless you fake
The way we do
And say it's true
What's in our book
Just take a look
And soon you'll see
Reality
Belongs to me
--I mean to Him
His power's within
My mortal flesh
And who would guess
That it was me
Was meant to be
A chosen one
A pointed gun
At those He hates
His wrath abates
When fire is cold
And time gets old
As was foretold
By prophets bold
Great men of old
Religion sold
The people told
Their word of gold
But on inspection
Their intention
Is control
To be the sole
Proprietors
And keep the people quieter
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 11:10 PM UTC
B.R.O.M.B. is the abbreviation
of an amalgamation of a
situation in abomination by
dissipation of a nation in
segregation & humiliation
with an expectation in
deviation by procrastination
of delineation by a cessation
and violation to a predestination
of a unification by a precondition
without reservation, exploitation,
condemnation or expatriation.
So, the B.R.O.M.B. in Derry was
in anticipation of a preparation
an indication for a hesitation.
B.ackstop
R.enegers
O.bligating
M.ay's
B.rexit.
Just exploded in Derry!
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 9:20 AM UTC
At this specific point in time, I pause and give contemplation to the definition of time, whilst the echoing chords of pizzicato remind me of lettuce and a comfortable sense of direction in the face of adversity.
Chicken is very much related to time. Now, I know that such loose associations can be categorised within psychiatric parameters. However, such assertions are not baptised in epistemological fires. If you and I rise upon the wings of the wind, then we will understand that the aroma of Ellen will etch herself in the psyche of eternity.
I am comforted by the wisdom of predestination.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
Light peers in through the window
thinking of summer
I bring my wine glass to my lips
Then stop…
Everyone is expecting me to drink
This Predestination of thirst
I drop the glass
From two meters high
Shatters in jagged pieces by my feet
The light from the window
Mixes with the red wine and broken pieces
There’s a prism at my shoes
Bright rainbow of hues
Sprouts like arms
Giving me a hug
That I didn’t deserve
I see my body
In the broken pieces of glass
I dropped it
Out of destruction
Creation
Beauty
I wanted to see this
Simply because,
I haven’t seen anything pretty in awhile
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:12 AM UTC
You may cover the stench with a potpourri—
while you gag, as you finger your rosary.
Sacrosanct nourriture…
or decayed pourriture?
(Other patrons might label it Popery.)
Though the tepidly Protestant matron
of a church that is stagnant and state-run
does not care about Luther,
We’ll bother to truth her
with Calvin or Knox as our patron.
Though the Vatican’s bottomless coffers
make some very un-Lutheran offers,
I would rather talk Tetzel
(with beer and a pretzel)
and drink with the rebels and scoffers.
We forget that the birth of the Kirk
was a vicious, un-Catholic work
One recalls ****** Mary…
and Knox was no faerie.
His doctrine drove Satan berserk.
Many chairmen, deficient in wit
who on flimsy theologies sit
with no justification
hate predestination,
reviling it more than a bit.
Barthelemy (in French: St. Bartholomew)
was unpleasant, as most of the martyrs knew
Roman Catholic correction
or violent deception?
In heaven, they’re getting the overview…
People gag, and then murmur the rosary
seeking solace in incense or potpourri
you must pardon my French
but this damnable stench
smells like nothing so much as like Popery.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC