Insanity........
That is a subject alot of people face day in and day out. Some of us make light of the fact that the mass of tissue and blood jammed up in our skull is wired wrong.
Then others simply go off the deep end; But then there are the ones that simply put the barrel in their mouth and close their eyes forever. It's like the line goes...
"I'm only laughing on the outside, My smile is but skin deep. But if you could see inside and see me cry then you might join me for a weep."
Yeah trite shit; But truth can be seen in all things.
Lies can be seen every where as well. We lie to ourselves every waking minute; We can't stand the sum of all our emotions, desires, and instincts. We know every weakness and fault we have. There like wounds that will never heal. No healing, no releif, no release; Just rotting and suffering.
Just the cold fact that the world around us holds our spirits down to drown in the self made sorrow called living. There is no light at the end, no warm place to hide; the womb rejected us and god forgot us a long time ago.
We are all abandoned, lost, damned to writhe in the suffering. I grow tired, no strength to stuggle under the weight of the world. Maybe I'll just lie here and wait for the dawn that will never come, or maybe the night eternal will finally come and take me.
I dream of the freedom, dream of either one of it's forms. Yet I grow more aware that there is only the one release from all this. I won't go, My son calls for my arms to hold him. Maybe I'll just wait here then, and dream of the other freedom. I'll pray that it's real; But prayers rarely get answered in this godless world.
I wish insanity was another option. I wish for many a thing.....
I wish I was blind. I wish I was deaf. I wish I was mute. Someday I will be all of them and more, Just not today.
Not so long as there are reasons to be otherwise.......
IN A DISUSED GRAVEYARD
The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
"The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay."
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can't help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.
A poem by Robert Frost.
Another poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
"Shall I have naught that is fair?" Saith he;
"Having naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again,"
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eye,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
"My Lord has need of these floweretsgay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled:
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child."
"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love:
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
That is a subject alot of people face day in and day out. Some of us make light of the fact that the mass of tissue and blood jammed up in our skull is wired wrong.
Then others simply go off the deep end; But then there are the ones that simply put the barrel in their mouth and close their eyes forever. It's like the line goes...
"I'm only laughing on the outside, My smile is but skin deep. But if you could see inside and see me cry then you might join me for a weep."
Yeah trite shit; But truth can be seen in all things.
Lies can be seen every where as well. We lie to ourselves every waking minute; We can't stand the sum of all our emotions, desires, and instincts. We know every weakness and fault we have. There like wounds that will never heal. No healing, no releif, no release; Just rotting and suffering.
Just the cold fact that the world around us holds our spirits down to drown in the self made sorrow called living. There is no light at the end, no warm place to hide; the womb rejected us and god forgot us a long time ago.
We are all abandoned, lost, damned to writhe in the suffering. I grow tired, no strength to stuggle under the weight of the world. Maybe I'll just lie here and wait for the dawn that will never come, or maybe the night eternal will finally come and take me.
I dream of the freedom, dream of either one of it's forms. Yet I grow more aware that there is only the one release from all this. I won't go, My son calls for my arms to hold him. Maybe I'll just wait here then, and dream of the other freedom. I'll pray that it's real; But prayers rarely get answered in this godless world.
I wish insanity was another option. I wish for many a thing.....
I wish I was blind. I wish I was deaf. I wish I was mute. Someday I will be all of them and more, Just not today.
Not so long as there are reasons to be otherwise.......
IN A DISUSED GRAVEYARD
The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
"The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay."
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can't help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.
A poem by Robert Frost.
Another poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
"Shall I have naught that is fair?" Saith he;
"Having naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again,"
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eye,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
"My Lord has need of these floweretsgay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled:
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child."
"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love:
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
{{{hugs}}}