Monday, April 28, 2014

What of me?

What happen to
"I will love you for who you are"? or
"I will love you as you are"?
Are those just words?
Meaningless words?
Shall I love against a closed door,
a manikin or a picture of a goddess--
just to be loved in return?
Does that make a reality--
or a mere fantasy?
Is it the matter of life and death--
for myself to have what people call--
perfection; when it is all physical
and it will be gone, anyhow?
Shall I ponder upon all of these tedious
question marks in my burdened head
just to fulfill the desires and dreams
of a clueless and unappreciative air head?
Well then, what of me?
What of the tree of my being
with roots thrust deep into this earth?
I am of what I make myself with rejoice--
shall you, love, doubt and waver challenge
my position and I as a humble human.
What else to be done?
Insecurities kill--
You are killing me.

To Live

What does it take
to make people realize that life is short?
It's temporary.
Do they need a terminal illness
to open their eyes?
To start gripping onto
the little things--
when it's a little too late?
Life is short.
It's temporary.
Death is a promise.
The moment we were born--
we are preparing to die.
Along the way, the purpose of living
is to be searched as if it's buried underground--
like a treasure.
Why bother living when we will end up dead anyway?
Isn't that a reason?
For Him we live and for Him we die.
Is that not enough reason?
There were no realistic moon--
for their stars are dirt.
There are no reason to live but to die.