I write poems. I must feel to write them so I have not written in a while. I'm going through life not feeling much of anything, like when you're on a small boat...soon you just get use to the rocking that used to make you sick. And today, quite by accident I remembered a way that I have come to write poems in the past. Most have been from relationship troubles but some have been response to songs. This is my response to:
Is the purpose to be full or to be empty or to be satisfied with either?
Is the purpose to make others happy or to make yourself happy?
Is the purpose to be still or to live in stillness wherever you go?
Is the purpose to laugh at life's impossibilities or cry?
Is the purpose to rejoice in your strength or in your weakness?
Is the purpose to learn or to learn to forget?
Is the purpose to learn of yourself or of others?
Is the purpose to build or to simplify?
Is the purpose to...
When I was lead to the stream, and I saw that life really had little meaning,
because life was created by The Indescribable One,
We flow out to no certain end, and we could not understand that others were
as much a part of us as the other particles of water.
And would we be kind to them?
For kindness was really kindness to ourselves,
and our great error in thinking that we were other.
And I am waiting for him
And I am longing for him
And I cannot be wrapped up again
Unless he comes
I was upset by honors that were given me
and I could ignore every quote I learned if it could
be exchanged for creative genius
I am a tempest met with a complacent wind
My storming does not move them
my storming does not make them move or fly
I have wearied myself with boasting my truths,
with swearing that they needed to be educated again?
What of my education?
I have learned to shut up
and to disappear
and to move silently
and not despair
that the world does not understand
that you just wanted to to know them...
or rather for them to know you as you are
and not try to change you.
Cease and begin again
They are chasing the dollar and not its worth
It would be easier for them to believe me if I slept on a
pile of dollars, but that's dirty,
I keep my bed swept clean
not a dollar in sight ever
(The Red Paper Clip Story, a response)
What did you build this house on?
Bricks, cement, or
hopes and dreams,
an adventure you dared to live