For you, for you I write. I see you truly understand my country. I see you truly understand its good. I see you cannot see a single one of its flaws. I see you believe in what America once stood. Trust me, I wish I could see it too, But I must write these odes, I must criticize. I must tear the fabric of our nation apart. So that way it will be stitched back together The right way And you will still have your rest.
One can measure the Sermon on the mount, and like Calculus, measure That Golden Ratio to Calculate and find Jesus.
The fanatic raises his weapon high Making the blood sacrifice of his faith The bare chested woman's husband his blade Drew the blood of; the infidels are nigh His every thought. "Pay back the sins in blood--- "All the dead, be the propitiation! "The alter of soil; alter of stone "Drip the blood of the dead infidel's sons." The saints of his religion pick up the Wounded upon the street, those he had killed. They balm them with the oils, wrap sterile Gauze across burned visage. For their religion was love.
When I look upon the heart of a man Who consciously decides to practice err I see him strain so hard to do what's bad Though I also see in that heart repair. When I look upon the heart of a man Who offends as part of his daily bread I see a man whose best, I understand, Is as bad as a man whose heart is dead. Though in deed, the first man's crimes seem as worse Than the man whose second deed is habit What awful sin the first commit was choice While the second man's sin is found avid. Which is worse? I do say they are both same And sad, but the first man, who's sorely grave Repented and found his good heart again; The second is bad, and will not be saved. For the first man finds Jesus Christ and prays While the second man rather stays his way. One knows his sin, and the other cannot. That is why one is saved while the other will rot.
What happens when kings Won't let you cultivate your garden?
A friendship, when built upon honest first Impressions, sparks a sincere intercourse; Which, neither putting forth a facade's mirth Can be built with true knowledge's comfort.
An Ode on Faith What keeps a man, when Abraham is preached, From imitating him,---in murdering His son?---to, another's life, be the thief? Much the same that allows one, whose reading Of a poet, understand the clever Metaphors, and gives one's knowledge a truth. 'tis what allows a man knowledge; whispers In his ears the meaning of sweetest fruit. There is the literal, which, willing kills, Without concept lays actions bare and bald. The literal reading atheists fill Christian minds, searching deeply for a fault. Yet, we somehow know what a passage means, For that is why faith remains; 'tis unseen. Should man without this ability be, Such man, hell's stone be his foreboding vault.
Narcissism as defined by psychology Is wanting to be loved. Healthy ways of being in psychology Is loving yourself. I understand what a narcissist is. Trust me, I do. But, something about the definition seems stupid. To want people to love you, That is narcissistic. To have the innate desire to love yourself This is not narcissistic. Let me reiterate. It is narcissistic to want love. It is not narcissistic to love yourself. In other words, It's healthier to love yourself Than it is to be loved by others. Let me reiterate: Everyone are narcissists And the ones who want love the most, Those are the ones who everyone say are sick.
Across the seas I look, so forth, to see The rays of dawn's mid morning light; I peer there cross the bays so seen---the sea It calls a melodic light of mulled plight. Is there or is there not a god to love Whose majesty had planed the seas so blue? For daunting feast of mind this task will seem When shown that man his suffered life anew Must live a life of grief upon this earth. Yet, good has failed we men when God's in dearth.
How I wish it was your shadow Which touched mine. How I wish in every evening Glow, that you found me And were secretly my shadow. If at one moment, You stood behind, waiting for me. All I had to do was ask for you, And you'd appear. Yet, I have said, "Do not be..." Because I do not want a shadow. For when I ask for you, You do not appear. No... you do not appear. Hope is in every woman With that familiar face. I see you everywhere. In the neighbor At the mall On the computer screen The author of a poem When I am driving through the local towns. There you are, Your face, And I think, "It is her "And all I have to do is reach out for her." Look. It is not you. Your familiar face, If I could just have just one of you. But, it is not the face I want. No. It is you. I find you on several dozen faces, And each of them I want. At the state park, At my desk in school, At the retirement home where I volunteered. Though, it is not you. It never is. I get into a bitter fight today And I lose hope that you exist. Because men complicate simple truths with obfuscated Legalities, and political points And hard to swallow talking points. All I want is you. And yet, when I call, As I always try to call, You are gone. You do not come when I call for you. When I'm at the family picnic I walk down to the wine cellar And I imagine you walking in, And introducing our children; For our love was a secret. Whatever reason. But, I walk upstairs, And you do not come. And I drink my cup And I look into it... I know I'm not supposed to... And I sigh.