I can’t see the beauty in other people.
I know they’re not ugly, but
they’re not beautiful, either.
They might as well be aliens, that act like I do.
We are all aliens.
The pastor gives me a simple book on sin
“Jesus, is our redemption.”
I feel more and more, that the human race needs that
I keep trying to redeem myself
but I fail
Maybe, I need to surrender to God, again
but if I stop fighting, I don’t know what might happen…
If you stop believing in yourself
If you lose your pride
If you deactivate your bomb
there is nothing that can go off
I big part of me, has so much arrogance
I would not have been able to do this
and then people tell me, “It’s good that I can write down my feelings.”
“I want to be like F—in F. Scott Fitzgerald. Forget the personal therapy that’s free,”
I might say.
People mock me, while trying to give me sympathy.
You got to admire somebody who doesn’t stop.
The trick is, you can’t care about them
and you probably won’t know about them. They’ll be the ones in the nursing homes
unable to hold a pencil, to write three lines down.
They’ll be mumbling through stroke-frozen lips
while the bible man leans closer. “What’s that, you say, Mr. Johnson? You finally want to give your life away, to Jesus?”
And the bedridden man believes, but he doesn’t tell anybody.
There are no golden people, with golden light
Just, men and women, in black and white
the old man mutters to himself
his dreams, were like butterflies
a life, without flowers
all those insects of the sun
unable to alight,