God is a joker;
I am His joke.
Excuse me while I take
Another toke.
Arms that reach
Across a breach,
Never connecting–
Bodies that long
For a better song,
Never resurrecting;
And dare I say,
Who stoops to pray,
It has to be good sometime;
There has to be rhythm
Along with rhyme.
But, I’m out of time.
Glazed look in gelled eyes,
No surprise.
I dare not hope;
I cannot cope
With war within.
Why call it sin?
God is a joker;
I am His joke.
Excuse me while I take
Another smoke.
creator is joker ,
you are his joke.
agreed… again agreed ,
again , who did he meant to make happy.
was it laugh or smile he expects.
Again , creator capable of creating joke.
why can’t he have that laugh and smile without a reason ?
Thanks, F. C. It was written during my throes of major depression. I do believe in God, but question my sanity. I only hope my negativity is not contagious. Sometimes, in pain, one has to fight back.
Revolting against what or whom?
Constant gloom?
Too early tomb?
Too little room?
Some heavenly womb?
Too little love?
All the above.
I’m reminded of Wm. Blake’s “Book of Thel” in which a spirit about to be born looks down on Earth and sees nothing but suffering and mutual devouring. She chooses not to be born. I see the same, but had no such choice.
I look into the mirror.
My reflection claims it
Is not reflection, but is
Objective in my subjectivity.
This is not a poem;
It is a reflection.
I was created to think
In conundrums.
If–“life’s a bitch;
And then you die”–
If no one knows
The reason why–
Give me a hit
Of that good feel good.
Perhaps you could.
I do not understand
If all is planned
How I would–
How I should–
Give me a hint
Of that good feel good.
Perhaps you could.