A collection of verses – I

A flower,
without nature or nurture,
is doomed to wither.

Death is
an inescapable destination
in the course of life.

Growth is essential
to find the essence
of a being.

Stagnation is a danger
that strikes whenever
growth is stunded.

New opportunities are
to growth
as success to advancement.

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On Outward Perfection

Fear is a powerful motivator,

but the worst of the influencers.

When you close yourself off to others

it had better be to make yourself better.

You curl up in a ball for better protection

and to facilitate innate introspection

against the dangers of the hostiles outside

that seem, for you to be little more

but murderous, and meticulously devious.

 

Fear is a powerful feeling,

but does not build the inward perfection

we more often than not feel

is our ultimate destination.

Do we not grow

when we challenge our status quo?

Do we not improve our comfort

by fighting the feelings of discomfort?

 

While it’s fine to be fulfilled

by finding our inner whole,

we build our contentment

by seeking that which adds to our core.

For we may stagnate

by simply staying in comfort

rather than growing with discomfort

away from the static state of innate.

 

A collection of verses

If you’re going to write a poem, you generally write one about life. To write about life in it’s entirety, you need to write about all it’s aspects – not just the positive and doctored moments you see on social media. There are hard times that need to be spoken by the brave few who mention them, and acknowledged by the wise who pay attention.

This is a collection of thoughts for all those living in darkness with no way out. This can be written by anyone, spoken by anyone, anyone who’s going through a hard time. Here’s to you.

All I see is night.

Unending, unrelenting

neither wrong, nor right,

it just is, and will be, night.

And yet, I see more clearly

now, than in the blinding light

of the day, and the public

spotlight.

If you are the night,

you cannot be seen.

you are but a whisper

that makes them shiver in broad daylight.

 

Conviction is a falsehood

as litterally nothing is for certain.

You cannot be sure something exists

as surely as if it doesn’t.

Let people have their fictions,

their odd, fossil wizards

who seem to know better

and are made in their image.

You know they’re wrong,

but you don’t need to point it out,

for doing so is wasted work

and not worth your time.

 

Why should policy matter?

This theatre of lies

between left and right

if it doesn’t benefit me?

What good is a system

so far removed from the ground

that it seems like those above

are the gods of Olympus

and we, little more

than the oppressed plebes of Athens.

 

People make millions

for being useless to society

while those milions guaranteed

never go in charitable humanity.

Why make gods

out of useless people

born only to entertain

and out to pasture when their peak is passed?

Why should I care for athletes

and actors, who feed the fictions

of things we could do

that aren’t actually of our existence?

 

The world turns. It burns.

Let it burn.

The world’s problems

do not concern me.

It is run by sick people

voted in by careless citizens

too absorbed in mediocrity

and their medias to care

about something

too far gone and broken

that they never bothered

to really get involved in.

 

They always used to say

that no man (nay, being)

should ever die alone

and forgotten.

Guess they were wrong –

everyone has to die, but

whether in a coffin or not,

we all die alone, and are forgotten.

No matter how hard we scream,

blunt or blunder our way

to power, it may be irrelevant

and history tends to forget.

 

From ashes to ashes –

this is all that we are.

Neither matter, nor trials of the spirit

can truely fill the longing in our hearts.

We hunger to fill the emptiness

of the being and body

only to notice the ever true

futility of our existing.

But we crave more,

our thirst unquenched,

until the soul is scorched

and no seed can be sprung.

 

My friends said

“there’s a ying to every yang”,

always another half

to make you whole.

If that were true,

I would have found

that one by now,

they who make me whole.

And yet, I found

that it is I who must

make myself whole

and not dependent on another.

 

Sit and watch

as friends announce engagements

or show off their fun events

while your life is the same as it was before.

None of it interests you,

none of it concerns you.

You are dead to life,

and your friends are dead to you.

There is no need to subscribe

to the egofest of others.

You are all that matters

in the four corners of your room.

 

See? If you look closely enough

and with the right lens,

you see with greater clarity

than in looking with the light.

For if it truely were easy

to look in broad daylight,

then we wouldn’t be squinting

from the sheer force of the light.

If you are the night,

you cannot be seen.

you are but a whisper

on the edge of daylight.

 

 

Far Beyond The Stars

We are nothing but sparkles of light in the endless night,

shining in the dark like stars on water with the moonlight.

We are ash and dust, nothing but beings made and undone

in the indifference of cosmos immaterial, both there and gone.

I wish I knew beyond the boundaries of the mortal flesh,

far beyond the stars that shine our moon and our nights.

Up there, where the struggles of mortals and eternity don’t mesh,

where the solace of existence cares not for wrong or right.