Archives for category: Poetry

If we lose our religion, do we lose our insecurities?
We were born naked, stupid and scared,
Discovering questions with no knowledge for answers,

We think “the sun shines so there can be light”,
The world spins so there can be day and night.
The season change so we till the land,
For this frame of mind, we are thankful to a god who created life.

As we gain knowledge to answer these life questions,
We know that the causes are incidental and not the purpose.

There is light because there is a sun,
Day and night because this rock turns,
Winter is not a good time for planting crops,
Society are the ones busy creating their perfect gods.

There is no purpose for life but to live to give purpose.
We do not overcome a fear of the unknown by giving it a name,
We overcome it as how evolution has prepared us for it.
As sentient explorers, constantly discovering and learning

There is a place for religion for some.
For others, we satisfy these insecurities in other ways.
These other ways have shown the world to be round,
that the universe do not revolve around us,
that we can conquer the seas, the sky and finally,
the gravitational pull of the earth.

The streets are lined with banners,
Smiling faces, honest laughters,
Promises echoes from speakers at night,
Selling stories to the left and to the right,

They dance, we dance, and we make noise,
They plead, giving us the delusion of choice,

Delusion of choice, to choose a righteous leader,
or to help someone get in a position of power,
Delusion of choice, we line up to make our mark,
If it doesn’t end up being counted, that would suck.

When all this is done and all has been decided,
They move on, we are still here, ever devoted,
They will serve, serve their true kingmakers,
But who they are, everyone will eventually wonder.

A poet’s work should not be limited by rhyme, it cannot be shackled by language, it cannot be truly painted with colours, when expressed, only the surface can be observed but not it’s depth, it can be as deep as thought, the deepest chasm of the mind. Lost to the world but perfectly lucid in it’s place. On board a vessel of consciousness flowing on a river of subconsciousness. Quiet contemplation brewing, emotions churning, the drums of reasons beating, familiar voices stirring, like a crowded room, each with a direction of it’s own, trying to find a melody, trying to find truth, expressed in art, so we all wait for the quiet poet to exhale.

The quiet discussions and sometimes disagreement,
They start out in the quiet corner of contemplation,
They rationalise, they theorise, and sometimes, they surprise.

These voices are but our conscious mind,
Going through our thoughts every time,

People give them names, devil and the angel,
It’s just the conscience that make us mentally able.

Cogito ergo sum, we think therefore we exist,
No need to be afraid and fall to your knees.

These voices are not strangers, it is your own.
Your singularity and your cognitive tone.

It’s the voices of reason, making you who your are.
These noisy friends make your head like a Friday night bar.

There be mischievous whispers
and good for nothing calls
where it overwhelms ones safety
and makes the person fall.

For those with strange friends in the head,
Please take your medication before bed.

Life is but a fleeting moment of consciousness.
It should be lived to spread happiness.
Building memories for those around us,
Spreading smiles and an occasional blush,
Have you made another person smile today?
Or at least make their tears go away?
Have you managed to share a giggle,
Who deserves your touch, just a little,
Once you have made the difference,
You can sleep with a satisfied conscience 🙂

Caught in a tupperware in space,
With an over familiar face.
Here, there is no night and no day
Just a clock tuned to a place far away,
Memories are left behind with the booster rockets,
Dreams of the future zipping like comets,
Our bodies, they were not meant to be this way,
How I miss home, I cry as my tears float away.
Our lives, every future second is an adventure,
As we hurtle away from home, ever further.