It was inexcusable, so I
applauded
Marauder of my emotions,
pacing ... seething
Bored with action,
his disgusting attraction to
scoffing at me
repeatedly
Same old rusty pin
popped my heart balloon until
I lost count
What did he think I would
amount to?
dust
He predicted it
so I fulfilled
the prophecy perfectly
all
by
my
self
What could have been
a long, lovely bike ride
was rudely interrupted by a
loss of balance
From my deeply skinned knee
slowly emerged dark red Hues
of Blues
that had resided below the surface
for way too long
Then the numbness set in
only adding to the pain
Finally, resorting to a place of
pitying him
helped more than a million
countless therapy sessions
Past the point of being
passive. Too weak to be
aggressive,
his big mental muscles
stopped scaring and scarring me
after enough time was lost
I killed him in my dreams and
revived him
in this other reality
What is there to gain
from a man like that
We are all living life in a darker shade of blue.
Depressing ourselves, vacillating on aspirations
and other youthful ideas of jubilation
that we were never able to see through.
We sit in the shadows wailing about our pasts.
Wasting time
thinking about failed chances.
Lost romances.
And other "Memory lane" garbage
never meant to last.
We need to stop living in these old lamentations
giving us nothing but heartache and frustration.
We need to stop giving into Satan's self-pitying plans.
Get ourselves up and take a stand.
Remembering that Jesus Christ is our Lord, the Great Son of Man.
Our God came to save us; He came to crash our sins to their cores.
So that we would not have to obsess about our yesterdays anymore.
Because, we know full well.
That Jesus, our Lamb,
can save us from these self-made hells.
So now is the time
to be released.
By Jesus Christ,
our Mighty God
and Prince of Peace.
Freed from these
darker shades of blue.
Released into a life
that He makes brand new.
Death smiles at me in my nightmares.
I'll end up in hell like all those daring spirits.
Every time I pass a cemetery, I curse Lucifer.
One more day on this generous planet for the dark souls.
A hard-drug cure to silence those ill-omened angels.
I'm always in a bad mood without the sweetness of those bundles of green bills.
My sense of joy is monetary.
I wield the weapons of war like a soldier trapped in the bowels of a banana republic.
Hating myself is a suicidal project.
I address the angel of death from the African slums.
I break their laws; I'm not in a republican mood.
My logic is a Saharan burst of gunfire.
Descendant of guerrillas of Sahelian culture.
I'm allergic to Françafrique when I hear the self-pitying ramblings of the Republic.
My lights come from the openings of the homeland of those fanatic slave-traders.
I am a fundamentalist Catholic who recites Quranic verses like an alcoholic.
I hate failure and I adore easy money from illicit drug trade.
I prefer darkness, like the Western predators who rob Africa.
The pieces of me are spread across the floor as I have thrown it there
All of my energy was put into the sabotage
so why on earth would I waste my time trying to pick it up
it will prick my finger and then drop all of it
there are consequences to my actions
I have accepted mine
even made a few of them
is there something wrong with me when i don't even have
the energy to cry
take a shower
eat
My reflection in the glass shows me
brokenness
weakness
self-pitying
is the glass true?
or is the reflection just as broken as itself
I can't really tell the difference anymore
between living and dying
pain is visual
i pick up the glass
to prick myself and sabotage myself
yet again
what is wrong with my habits
will I ever have an explanation
to why this sadness is so indisposable
even when I think I got rid of it for good it stays and sneaks up
at all the
wrong times
He carried the stench of death upon him
so he had, from birth, and all knew but he.
All he met, unknown, sang a silent hymn
that he would not touch, so extend the spree.
Yet, he lived amongst them, as fate decreed
for those, caressed who had such little choice
turned to other deities to intercede;
they were not there, or did not hear their voice.
So death followed him, a pitying trail
across far distances, and endless space;
leaving a few, untouched, to mourn and wail;
that is the cycle of our human race.
When you find the pain helps you cope
Fear not, you may still survive
Deep within hides a beam of hope
Take a breath and slowly revive
The things that don't kill you
Don't always make you stronger
The wounds run deep and true
The pain a way for you to conquer
The scars heal and slowly fade
But the agony will always remain
The edged blade a bittersweet trade
A reminder of the way you went insane
Their pitying eyes haunt my every move
The prying glances pierce through my mask
I am sure they care and worry for me
But why can’t they just… let me be?
Erupting from my heart
Leaking through my puzzled eyes ~
No pitying humans
Can cure my pains
Like these
Little lavas
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”,
The minister intoned, dismissing us.
Embraced and patted, pitying looks from all.
Letting go of my rose, the last to fall.
Thorns pricked my finger, a drop of blood dripped down…
… in the hole where mother's body is buried in the ground.
The grown ups seem to know exactly what to do.
But I feel so lost, so lost without you.
I escape all the mourners by sneaking out the back.
I climb the hill beyond my house, a well known track.
Sitting on the stump that lends the best view,
I heard a rustling in the bush, and caught my first glimpse of you!
Tattered ears and dirty fur, but glorious and lush it must be…
…Once you've been given care, and had a few meals maybe.
You were unafraid, though i think you'd been given reason
to be leery of people, but instead you squeeze in...
...beside my sitting stump, tail wagging and tongue hanging wet.
You seemed to know I was sad and you came to me to pet.
I obliged, and found my arms thrown round your neck so tight!
I cried into your smelly coat, and felt you cared, that maybe
everything would be alright.
If tomorrow
She’s not there
I will live
A life
In despair
I would fall
Away
From her hand
Deflated
Flat
No light
Could I bare
I would wallow
In my sorrow
Exist
Only
In my self-pity
Yet
One tiny part of me
Would see across
The plain
Of my self-loathing
And that tiny part
Would start
Slowly
To build a scaffold
Bar by bar
Dawn by dawn
Slowly
Build me up
And direct me
To where
I need to be
I would seek out
Words of wiser men
Then me
Schopenhauer
Nietzsche
Aristotle
And more
Their words
Would turn me
A flat, deflated
Self-pitying
Nobody
Into a God
Into A devil
Into a philosopher
And I would find
Happiness
Again
But different
Not external
But
Internal
I need no one
To create happiness
By their presence
I find it
Inside
By understanding
The human psyche
And the traps
The masses
Leave
To tare you down
For they are scared
And envious
That I
Am able
To move on
But still
I dreamt
And still do
As tomorrow
She’s not there
Were Caesar's physique and a psyche imperishable?
Did he gain gifts from sources that were ineligible?
Hadn't all his possessions been from the heavens, rather?
Should he, then, for tributes, bother the son of the father?
Should Jews pay taxes to the Romans? This was their question.
Didn't you, as the infinite, know their foul intention?
If you say, You should give, they would ask you, You knew, Why should
If you say, you should not, you knew you'd be misunderstood.
Pitying on their stubbornness, you called them hypocrites.
Their minds, like a troubled pond, were full of perception splits.
Though descended from heaven, weren't you a human citizen?
They knew that if you wished, you could have been the sovereign.
Give away! Give up! Give back to each one his or her right
In ignorance-filled obstinacy, you said, Do not fight.
The fiddler was having hard times
Despite his sorrows, he began to play.
Some crossed the street.
Others gave him pitying looks.
The fiddler kept fiddling.
It is what fiddlers do.
A little girl with music in her soul came by.
She threw back her head and threw out her arms.
The fiddler began fiddling faster and faster.
Bluegrass music, which spoke to his soul.
The child danced and danced.
Others saw, and ran up to dance too.
A little child shall lead you, the fiddler thought.
There are some eminent people
who are true epitomes of bravery
they carry arms to fight against
the enemy and unfurl the flag of victory!
But at times, they become the war casualty
who lose their arms and survive shortly
Pitying glances fall as they live a life of disabled
But their high self esteem shouts, "You stand differently abled",
They shine bright and earn a unique identity
because they don't let go any coming opportunity
to restart the game of life as it was priorly
even if in a new way and hence they inspire many
Many of whom have a hard way to heal
and have courage to live their life normally...
The reflection in your eyes
Hide the sad lines of beauty
Mirrored in your own little ocean
Touched a thousand secrets
Who sees behind the smile
Enigmatic soul gone before me
So calm, but never passive
Touched a thousand secrets
The reflection in your eyes
Drown the life before me
So clear, tranquil, almost pitying
Touched a thousand secrets
Goodbye my distant lady
The night has seen you gone
No glance to say, no feelings
Touched a thousand secrets
The reflection in your eyes
Crept inside my soul
Mysterious lady, thoughts so deep
Tried to touch your mind
The reflection in your eyes
Like the ocean taking me further away
Beautiful enigmatic lady
Touched a thousand secrets.
What happiness is there in living?
What sadness is there in dying?
Happiness and sadness are ashes in the wind.
Death came along with birth; neither were growing young.
The hope of living, is the fear of leaving.
Man's iniquity courts his own end.
His life was lamentable, his death painful.
Only with brightness can good exterminate evil.
Joy and sorrow eventually become dust.
Heavens envy the righteous.
Plucking them before they fully ripen
taking them away from the lurking birds
So they feast not on them, lest they rotten
What's there on the otherside?
Who has been to the otherside?
What happens over there?
He who knows not, speaks not.
only tales for children's nightmares
Heaven's sin goes unpunished.
While it unleashes its wrath
Pitying not the people of this world.
Whose hardship knows no bounds
Who will punish the Heavens?........
A beckoning hurt hand
Something to understand
And then try to withstand
Or, else, vacate one’s stand…
‘’See, I’m badly bleeding,
My ignorance pleading,
That it be told the truth
And nothing but whole truth
About this grave of Ruth!
That had caused Frank a tooth!
‘’Does grave wish to be dug?
We could off the stuff shrug,
I leave with what I have
Cleanly sure I won’t starve!
Soon, a self-pitying head
Wanting pillow and bed,
Not Greg’s guiltless bloodshed….
Greg, who shall next week wed.
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