Friday, September 26, 2008

A game I can not win

Poetry, who doesn't love poetry.

If I died, would you even remember me?
And what would you remember?
The bad stuffs that were not meant to be?
Or the dance we did in December
What kind of dress would you bury me in?
Would it be white and hiding all the darkness?
Or black as the color of sin?
Whatever you do, please do it in happiness
My last words would be painful
Probably something that would hurt everyone
Never, can I remember anything joyful
With your arms around me all alone
I remember your trembling whisper
and Will remember it before I die
You told me that I'm not a looser
I do not believe what you had to say
Do you even care if I die?
Or do you just bury me in that white dress?
Do i get the chance to say goodbye?
to I get the chance to give you that last kiss?
Angel of darkness come to pinch at me
Lift me up with your big, black wings
Tell me that I was actually meant to be
That I was the one of whom they sing
Please little angel hold me close
Before you tell me that I am the one to loose....
This Is a game I can not win,
So I might as well not try
The angels have taken me for a spin
And I'm beginning to cry
I do not wish to leave you all like this
Yet, I can not decide
So goodbye I whisper in that last kiss
Before I disappear from your sight
Darkness pulls me with
Please remember me as I was
No fantasies or stories
I hope for you to leave me at least
Before these immaculate horrid
When death do Us part
You said one time
But yet, you left me without
Your passion that meant all to me
I am writing this as a goodbye
But please do not be angered
Promise me you will not cry
Or chose to kill in hatred
This Is a game I can not win. . .

1 comment:

Rasmus - That's it said...

I never did much to write out my thoughts, it's not that I don't think, or let them out, quite the opposite really, but, as with most things, my thoughts are wasted, let out before they burst from my skull, or drag me into nothingness. The answers I see, are very rarely where I look, and when I do look in the right places, the answers i find, those answers, they terrify me. Like a man in darkness shies away from the light, like the day gives way to night.

This, this is what I see, this is how I feel, the words, they come from my center, but they are not mine, not always, it has been a while, since those words came out, the words that weren't mine, the rambling, stumbling nature of the mind, defeating the weakness of my senses, to break out, as if from nowhere, swamping my already chaotic thoughts, crushing them below the wieghts of reason, of illumination and with their brilliance, they blind me once more.

Once, I found the meaning of life, the meaning of life itself, I know I found it, for, for a moment, just one single shining moment, I felt complete, i felt whole, i felt, no pain, no fear, I felt love, I felt nothing, and everything. Then reality hit, and the meaning escaped me. It has ever since.

Like the towers of babel, like the hanging gardens of babylon, like the wonders of the ancient world, everything crumbles, and yet, in all this crumbling, in all this entropy, the slow decay of the mind, the death of nature, our planet, the destruction of innocense, the murder of belief, religion and faith, in our search for the answers, we often forget the most important question, to our eternal question. Why?

Why, such a small word, but it is the core, it is the center, it is what man has become. It is the hollow creature we have become, forever searching to fill ourselves, with that question. Why? It is the first question we ask, but how many people, remember, why we asked why? Why? Why do we ask why? Why, why must we know? Why? Indeed, why why? We ask it, because, exactly, we ask why, because. I ask why? An answer is given, and no matter the answer, another why, can always be asked.

A vicious circle, a vicious circle, that we will never leave, because we have forgotten why we started asking in the first place. We have forgotten who we are, what we were, and slowly, as we ask why more, we give up our rights to the answers why gives. What happens the day that why no longer has an answer? The day, that the last why is asked? I fear for that day, because when it comes, man will break, the hollow creature will no longer be able to fill itself, and it will have forgotten that sometimes, you should not question something.

Poetry, Songs, Feelings, Belief, all things that fall apart with a simple why, sure, they may stand up to one why, but, each answer, will have another, until a simple, or harsh, Because, is used. Why? Exactly, that is why.