Writing The world is such a sad creature, and so many things cry. [Some swear words]

[Mitch]

[b]The world today is such a sad creature, and so many things cry[/b]
I am sick of reality and its implications,
its inflections, its incantations
and how it is so, and how it is known,
that coma, the one of them, the way it makes me tired,
i'll sleep in death, the coma lulled.

People walk round like they are so happy, so fucking glad,
like life is worth it, and the feeling is so well
when deep inside, the place of the heart
they are broken and falling apart.

Every smile I see should die,
every eye that feels it likes the way all is, i feel they should expire
and their eyes gutted out so they can actually see, actually be.

There is nothing much to be happy for, nor is there much to feel
when all has been done, and all is going to die.
Yet still mouths smile, like there is reason to,
and the genuine are all dead in their graves
crawling round in nothing.

The reality of birth is the most uncompassionate,
babies are born from lust of others, and marriaged fathers and mothers,
and forced to be born, and forced to be made from urges that will never change.
Fuck love, it only festers feelings and leads to more insipid life,
and to the birth of new life, the babies raped into existence like a swarm,
raped into existence for a race that has no purpose nor need,
that only is on the earth a disease, building machines where nature stood.

And a baby, he is actually happy and smiles true,
and as he grows, gets to be grew,
the way of the world begins to make him heartless, and as broken as us all,
and once grown and grew he smiles for no reason, and lives life when he needn't,
and lives life as he feeds it, the thing he was given for lust of others, marriaged fathers and mothers.

All is vanity, all is cometual,
all is interred, all is burdened,
and wisdom only leads to sorrow,
and intelligence leads only to sadness,
and knowing everything only leads us forlorn.

I am sick of how this world works,
how people go to school all their lives,
like maggots turning into flies,
and then they are expected to get a job,
they are expected to live from paper,
the money that holds all value.

I am sick of how unkind we all are,
we talk of our god and his son jesus,
and say we are so great, and jesus-like,
when deep down all we want is what we want,
and we are heartless, never seeing that we need not what we need not.

A man who does not go to church is not a bad man,
and a man who does not believe in god is not a bad man,
but he is a wise man, and a great one.
For a man such as this, he does not believe in something simply to believe,
but he believes in what he believes because he has reason to,
and has reasons other than himself to live for.

Fuck your god,
the bible is only paper and ink and tall tales,
and jesus was just another man.
Worship your god if it makes you feel better,
get on your hands and knees and pray to him,
and tell him what you want when it's not what you need,
and pray for all that you feel the world bleeds,
and tell him all your troubles, inanity as all,
and live for heaven and its wishes, and its calls,
and be not what you feel your heart says, but be what you feel machines say.
Breathe your iron lung, the fuckery that wheezes dumb,
suck your thumb, toilet trained and dumb,
for god comes from the machine,
he comes from society, and its needs.

To believe that god is real is to be self-serving and unseeing,
and i know there is not a cataract in your eye that blinds you so blind.
God is hope, and hope is god, and reason is hope and god is reason,
and none of these does life have, and none of these does life need,
for living for someone else is not at all right, when in your heart you feel elsewise,
but not living for someone else is not at all right too, when in your heart you feel elsewise.
God is an illusion, an aim to know something that we shall never know,
and heaven is an illusion, an aim to know something that we shall never know,
and if something is not absolute and true, then it must be a lie, one that comes close to truth and lie,
and if there is a god, no one knows, they only choose to say there is,
just like the romans did, with their multiple gods they had,
and just as the greeks, and just as peoples before peoples,
and us before us.

There is no need for church to believe in a god,
nor organization, nor a bible, nor hymns,
there is only need for belief, only need for your personal gains,
not others, nor any else.
All that is needed is your own devotion,
for religion is a personal matter, not a community one,
not a church one, not a greedy one,
and to believe in more or less is to be away from the truth of the matter at hand.

So I say fuck your god,
he is an unlikely chimera for you to worship,
one with many heads, and many facets,
and many needless needs.

I am sick of talk of religion,
and as it tires i have seen the truth,
and that is that i do not care if there is a god,
or if there is not.
For what is the point to try and believe something you don't understand,
and what is the purpose to give existence where you know not it there?
There is not point nor purpose in this but hope and reason to our petty lives,
and that is what is not there.

So I say fuck your god,
he is an unlikely chimera for your to worship,
one with many heads, and many facets,
and many needless needs.

I am sick of so much,
and when one is sick, they must cough or hurl,
and regurgle what is poisoning them.
Or they must be given medicene, stuff that heals,
or their bones must be wrapped in a cast, to be put back together
what was once broken.

And I am sick of fixing what was once broken,
it only makes me weaker each time.
And I am sick of knowing as much as i know,
it only makes me weaker, for i have less reason to heal,
and i have less reason to feel.

And I am sick of coughing at my sickness,
and writing it in the wind as it flies away,
unable to be seen by my eyes.
And I am sick of regurgling my sickness,
and letting it float around in a flushing toilet,
its chunks little effegies to my brain.

One can only be sick so long,
and bellyache their problems so long
until they get sick of it all and act well,
and smile at hell, and smile at everything,
and say it does not matter in their hearts,
for it shall end some day, purposeless,
and full of one last suffering.

Have you ever stopped,
as you lie alone,
and heard nothing but your heart.
And have you stopped,
and realized this is all you are,
that you are organic, and frail,
and meaningless, and your heart is all that keeps you alive.
And you feel pain in feeling your hear beating,
and you feel pain in knowing such a thing as disquieting as that.
Then your mind leads this way and that,
and you realize that when you swallow something,
it goes to your stomache, and then your realize
that all the organs in your body are all that keep you alive.

It is sad to be so frail, and sickly built,
and to know that all you feel is a joke, it is merely your mind,
it is merely chemicals entwined, mixing in a slew to make you fine,
or worse or how your body feels.

We are a slave to physicalties,
our mind is melded by what we see,
the gravity that pushes us down.
Our mind is only a personal recollection of what we find,
and the way the physical world is.
And without both neither could exist,
for you need your brain to have your eyes see,
and you need the physical world for your brain to be.

It is sad to know all this, for it only makes reality more real,
and makes you see what you feel, and how useless it is to care.

All we learn is not all pointless, but much of it is,
for we go to school all our lives,
maggots turning into flies,
and we learn many things we will never need,
and remember many things that have no point.
And in reality we only keep what we want,
and we only do what comes easy to us,
and try to adapt to getting as so.

I have tasted the real world,
and it is not as it is now.
Society is a heartless being,
a machine that sucks out your heart,
and rips out your soul,
and grabs your eyes,
and turns them all to you,
and makes you feel as it does.
It is not right that that is so,
but we do it to ourselves, and it started ages ago,
and now it cannot be stopped by the few that fight it.
We are a slave to our devices,
and one day they will crash in crisis.

Intellect muddles all,
and makes the vainest vanity.
What many would give to not have it,
it is hard to say
but also easy to explain why.

By nature's device, we would not have clothes,
and we would not have homes,
and we would not have cars,
and we would not have jobs,
and we would not have education,
and we would not have language,
we would simply have what is simple
and that is to live.

There are too many distractions, too many things that turn our eyes from this,
and few realize what a slave they are to all and everything.
And for those that realize it, they are ridiculed, and stepped on,
and homeless and alone, and have nothing but what is their own.
And it is wise to have your sum of all parts and to use them like this,
but few do, and few have the will.

I dream for dreams.
but my heart has died.
And I dreamed for dreams,
but my heart was ripped out by the world today.
And what i have realized, and what i have feigned,
and all that i have given a place is all unsettled.

Dreams are not meant to be,
for reality murders all.
It murders your life,
it murders your reason,
it murders your heart,
and most of all it murders you.

I dream for dreams.
but my heart has died.
And I dreamed for dreams,
but my heart was ripped out by the world today.
And what i have realized, and what i have feigned,
and all that i have given a place is all unsettled.

Dreams are not meant to be,
for reality murders all.
It murders your life,
it murders your reason,
it murders your heart,
and most of all,
it murders everything and all reason.

There does come a time where a man must think for himself,
not let some god think for him, not let some other speak for him,
and there is a time when a man must just give up all that he does not truly heart,
and just fucking live.
But few come to this time but in death.

I was at a nursing home yesterday,
and if there is a smell of death, that is its smell.
All the graying there live there in their beds,
they lie all gray in white sheets, and they hold bibles are round
like rusted steel,
and they all go to church each day, holding on to nothing.

The people there, i could see it in their eyes,
they wanted to die, and for their suffering to end,
but they still lived just to live, some of them,
and they did not have god to crutch.
To those i feel so much,
for that is what true courage is,
it is standing up for something
when you're down and out and you know it is so.

And at that nursing home, i saw my grandma violet,
she was a smoker in her time, cigarettes smoked her fine,
and now she is hooked to an oxygen tank that keeps her alive.
And the doctors there, when they see she is depressed and distressed,
they feed her full of pills to numb the pain.

Today i awoke to my dad talking on the phone,
and him explaining that grandma violet was having a mental breakdown,
and that she would shut her eyes and scream, and not respond to anything.
This is what living does to us all, and it is wicked cruel.

I am sure if i could see my grandma violet's eyes as she opened them only to close them
i would see a tortured life, and death breathing like a sigh.

When an animal is suffering, we shoot it or kill it,
and end its pain.
When a human, also an animal, is suffering,
we laugh at it and say it is funny sad that such as that is had,
feeding them full of pills to numb the pain.
The world today is such a sad creature, and so many things cry.

At that nursing home, gray wrinkles of figures would stare me from their eyes
as they sat in their wheel chairs, and they would look envious and denied.
And that feeling crawled up my spine, and i realized not for the first time that
one day that will be me, grayed and lined.
That thought is quite benign.

And mankind is the only animal that needs to blush,
or that needs to cry,
or feel envy, or denied,
or needs to regret,
or feel a want other than what it truly needs.
We are so obtuse on our knees,
and so acute when we please.

That nursing home was full of pictures upon room's walls,
the adorning smiles from far away small, or from close big,
and it was full of TVs, and full of stuffed bears,
and young nurses that cared for the grayed,
and all around there i felt youth that was dead.
Even in death people clutch to youth and life,
it is sad it so.

It is funny that death smears on us all our lives,
and we live to foster life,
and then we are so scared of what has bleated so very long.

Age is a universal thing, it comes with time,
and comes with its eyes always getting wider in our view,
and so many feel afraid, and push it aside.

I can tell you that death is a thing that will come,
i could see it in those graying figure's eyes,
and how they desired what they once had, and no longer deserved,
and how they looked to be suffering, some of them,
and how some looked weary and already dead.
That was courage in some of their eyes,
that they were willing to suffer for nothing all the time.

The world today is so overplayed,
when suicide is committed, it is seen that it is a problem,
nothing more and nothing less.
We all feel we should die one time or another,
and many will profess they could not do it anyway.
In the time of the romans, suicide was seen as noble,
and people died heroes at their own hands.

What is so wrong about taking a life that is yours,
and being free from reality?
There are some things wrong with it, and other times there is not,
but death is inevitable, as much as we fight it,
and age only brings this closer to our heads,
and shows us that we will die when it comes,
and that when it comes there will be some release.

Death is not an end,
but a gift that ends.
And life is not a gift,
but a purposless suffer,
and it takes all the courage one can muster
to live for yourself, and to know what you want,
and not be tempted by the things that make it easier.
For most can resist everything but temptation,
for tempation is the ultimate sensation.

Call me a pessimist,
for i am a realist that hates
these realities, but sees them for what they are.
For dreams rarely happen, and wishes never star,
and twinkling things are often dull scars.

Too many live not with their hearts,
but i do.
And my heart is a dead thing often,
but deep inside it is opened wide,
and it has the most strongest things to say,
and the best to proclaim.

Few live life for what it is,
and complex themsevles with distraction,
and find that as their infatuation.
Others see life as something simple,
as a cycle that will spin,
and they see they are nothing therein.

To suffer is to be happy,
and sin is just god's word,
an outline for what is morally upturned.
Follow your heart even if it is wrong,
even if it is against the law.

For what's right is wrong
and what's wrong is right,
and not much is absolute,
and right and wrong is certainly not.

If you are happy, and smile,
and feel entire,
then you are quite easily amused,
and quite easily conclude.
For deep inside you are not happy,
and never will be,
and will suffer, and that will make you happy.

Pain is the universal lover of us all,
and even in happiness there is pain,
and even in pain there is hapiness.
To discern this is to be at best,
and to take your pain the most.

To take crutches is wicked cruel,
and is to be a fool.
For numbing pain only makes it hurt more later,
and only leads to false happiness.

And I am sick of reality,
and its incantations,
and its abrations.

I feel that any that smile,
that they are grinning under their pain,
and trying to be inhuman and brave.
And in that bravity, i see they are depraved,
and just as sad as us all.

Get rid of everything that is not your own,
and make it bent and broken as you are.
Get rid of everything that you do not need,
and burn it like a bright star.
Start living for your heart,
and fucking live,
and fucking feel alive as much as you can.

If you search for happiness, you search for perfection,
and if you search for perfection, you search for lies.
And if you search for lies, you search for dreams.
And i have dreamed many dreams,
and i have seen many things,
and i have watched them all die.
It is better not to try,
and better to live, and not ask why,
and better to not know anything more than is needed,
it is much less contrived,
more sublime.

Beauty is not in ugliness,
put it aside.
The most simple things
are the most fine.

[Brasil]

Mitch, that piece is your voice. Go with it. That is the strongest thing I've read from you, and it isn't boggled down in trying to be fancy or using overloaded metaphors. It works because it's simple; it works because the voice is clear; it works because the motivations are clear.

I don't have the time to go into detail, but I'll discuss it over AIM with you. There are a few minor editing details I suggest, moving some words onto the line before them, stuff like that.

But yes, take this voice and develop it. Not necessarily the despondent voice, not necessarily the depressed voice, but the strong voice. The direct voice. The purposed voice. Your previous writing was MGS2. You achieved MGS1 with this. Trust me. That's good.

You're now beginning to branch away from the heavy metaphors and more into direct, almost minimalist styles. Your previous stuff was too hyperbolic, too melodramatic. This piece is a step in the right direction, not quite there yet, but an important first step.

Nice job.

[Justin]

Hmm...

I have to disagree with PT. I like the style you used in "Pristine Nazarene" and "576." I don't count myself any great critic of art, now, but that is my opinion.

You've still got some of the best talent for words I've ever seen. I'm just a bigger fan of your symbolism and allegories.

-Justin

[Mitch]

[size=1] I more agree with you, Justin. But that is just me. It's hard to say...but I'm a Poe-lover myself, so naturally that is when I like to write the best.

But I also like this simple, unverbose, unobtuse style of writing I'm developing.

You can't appeal to both worlds all the time, of course, so I guess that's just what I'm left with doing in the end.

If I write like I wrote this poem, some will love it, and more will understand it it seems. If I write in my obtuse, beautifully poetic style, some will love it, but it's more esoterical than the other way I could write. Which one I prefer should be obvious by how often I write in one style over the other--which is definetly the Poe-esque style.

In the end, my style is still developing every day. It all depends on my mood...and lately I've just gotten sick of writing obtusely, I just want to easily venue how I feel. So we have what I have now.

Thank you all for your kind words. It's nice to know that some people love my writing...because lately I have been getting discouraged over it. Perhaps I'm too gulliable to a lot of things, but who knows. All that matters is poetry is starting to come a lot easier thanks to this fresher style. I'm sure I'll revert back to my more poetical style eventually, but we have what we have.[/size]

[Dragonballzman]

I'm not exactly the most talented person when it comes to poetry and literature and all that, so I can't really describe the certain points I liked about it very well. Sorry ^^;;. All I can really say, without confusing myself or going on for hours about the same thing then sounding like an even bigger idiot is that it was interesting. Throughout the whole thing, I was hooked. Really good job. This is the first poem of yours I've read, and I'm impressed already.