The Heavens are resentful of man but disdain their efforts, for we are the ones who work to their commands and plough to their directions, at mercies to the whims and preferences, slaves to their tantrums and beckon to their calls.
The Heavens are covetous of women but dismiss their plight. For us, things are taken from and never given in return, and we are allowed only to dance to the beat of their amusement and move to the sound of their demands, conquered, abused and discarded with illusions of freedom that are never given.
The Heavens are jealous of mortals but snub their toil, for we are much happier than deities. How does a god feel joy when they have no sorrows? How does an entity know peace when it has never fought? So happy mortals and sad gods are all they have ever known, and all there will ever be.
- prayer
I won't go to Heaven; I'll go to space.
Heaven is for the saints and hell for the sinners, but space is for none.
I won't go to Heaven; I'll go to space.
Heaven has angels, and hell has its devils, but space is free.
I won't go to Heaven; I'll go to space.
Heaven is too high, hell is too low, but space is just right.
I won't go to Heaven; I'll go to space.
Heaven is limited, hell is full, but space is vast.
I won't go to Heaven; I'll go to space.
For Heaven is for the blessed and hell for the damned, but space is for the stars.
- confession
What are you willing to lose to gain everything?
What are you ready to gain as you lose everything?
Those were the questions I was asked when I reached the golden gates of Heaven. Those are the words inscribed on its golden plates, embedded in its golden bars.
So I pondered and pondered, mulled and mulled, thought and thought, till I arrived at my answer.
Is anything worth losing everything to gain? Is losing everything worth gaining something?
For what is truly worth losing everything to gain?
- ritual
Oh, how does one make art?
Through happiness or misery, that is the question.
Is art only meaningful because of the bloodshed?
Is art only a valve because of the tears cried?
Is it only worth it because of the heartache suffered?
Or is it because it moves, comforts and soothes?
My mind wanders and ponders when I sit down to write in the wee hours of the night. What if my art is happy, what if my art is joyful, what if my art is shallow, but what if my art is worthless?
When I put down my quill in the late hours of the day, I sigh and ask. Does my art touch you because you saw your sorrow, pain, and misery?
Do you consider it art because you saw the tears, felt the teardrops, and touched watermarks?
Do you like it because it makes you happy, tearful, and feel less alone?
Do you want it because you need it?
- mantra
It's the middle of the night; the gods are asleep.
Perfection must dream, too.
Stop!
Bothering them with your prayers, interrupting them with your woes, disturbing them with your wishes,
burdening them with your needs.
It's the middle of the night; the gods are asleep.
Power must rest, too.
Stop!
Nagging them with your complaints, worrying them with your recklessness, disappointing them with your failures, troubling them with your actions,
It's the middle of the night; the gods are asleep. Because they, too, are human.
YOU ARE READING
A Book of Poems For My Beloved
PoetryThis is a collection of short essays written for my various beloved, whomever they may be. It is a book of poems for you.
