Oh, world

Not yet so wise but not so naive either,

I am, as you may not see,

a child no longer.

I see the stumbles and where you fall.

Unbeknownst to you, 

I have seen it all. 




Is it not a bit ironic that the loss of precious innocence

now redeems us into the light?

Indeed, innocence,

that had once shielded from otherwise overwhelming darkness,

now sheds to uncover

a soul ready to take on the truth of the world.



And yet

it is in knowing that one becomes vulnerable

for knowing the truth has the power to free and enlighten the soul

or darken and encase it.

Power 

lies within choice.

B a r e d

What are we 

'neath the self-portraits we make of ourselves? 



Tell me.

Who 

do we become

when all that we consider to be us or ours

d  i  s  i  n  t  e  g  r  a  t  e  s 

  

into just plain 

us? 

Just you.

Just          me. 

 

A                          question.

 More                                  questions.

Questions                                         to come.

No use trying to be subtle.

 No use trying to be complex.

Life gives.

Life takes away.

 

Simple as that.


      

   
    

And the pain? 

The pain becomes the cure.

The cure to our naivety,

to our senseless pretending,

to our self-destructive pride.

It humbles us  

into the beings we  a r e.

      







And when we can finally look at ourselves 

and s  e  e

only then can we fully accept

the wisdom of our very 





existence.

Incomprehensibly 

beautiful,

with all our imperfections;

wounds,

scars,

bruises,

and even our  

darkness.

Why else will we yearn for the light

if we have not been 

in  

d a r k n e s s ? 

     

Truth Is

Truth is,

while we drift, seemingly alone,

on our separate clouds of ecstasy,

we hide from

what lies 

within the depths of our own humanity. 

Voiceless, 

or so we deem,  

the souls of those that lay before us.

Oblivious, are we?

So into oblivion we shall fade. 




Truth is,

we believe in our own ignorance,

proudly, stubbornly so.

Faith and goodness,

and all we hold on to,

futile

till through the fires they go.

And if they remain 

shimmering, glimmering

amidst the ashes of deep cold scars,

so shall they rise from their heap 

and forever be

with the immortal dust of stars.




Truth is?

Truth is,

whether it stands tall and proud

or hides silently 

behind the dark foreboding of clouds

So we search it, 

twist it, paint it, stretch it, 

for all it cares

but we shall only see what we want to see

while truth

mourns in the corner,

laughing

at the loss of our sanity. 

The Philosopher

Alone in my room
thinking of life, as usual
how one can get so caught up in the cycle
in the system, in this box self-imposed by society
A pretentious philosopher
that I am
a fool 
with much to say but not much to say, if that makes sense
it makes perfect sense
As a wise man said a long time ago
"cows love grass," therefore, I must be a cow
such is the logic of life
to eat,
breathe,
work,
then die in sleep
only to wake up
to eat, breathe, work
then die in sleep
only to-- I've made my point
And so 
the waiting for Godot commences
as I try to take off my boots
which cling on to my feet,
unwilling to let go,
just like foolish young lovers these days
who 
fall in love with love
or 
fall in and out
of love
like children deprived of a game;
a game 
only fools play
when they know not of what is
but of what is not, 
not 
of what matters, 
but of what does not
But pay no heed to my ramblings
go on with life 
like evolved pre-biotic soup should
wise creatures 
of chains and walls
who paint their front yards with 
layers
upon layers of bright and dark colors 
that the rains 
will wash away over
time
And so I stand naked, 
metaphorically, if you please,
under the tree
in my room, 
calmly drinking sugared tea
being a pretentious philosopher,
thinking of life
as usual.