Category: Writers Block
This isn't my usual style of poetry. but here we go for some nonsensical ramblings.
What is death really. I am not religious; nore am I faithful. I think that if there was truely anything abuv it would be around in the physical presence. Yet in my mind, I see the walking contradiction between our time here and what it may bring. And perhaps death is nothing more than a gentle sleep. We might ly down, and noone can see what's prized within our minds or hearts. Yet we are still there. Whatever dimintion is beyond it has called to my attention that humans over obsess with the possibility of death. As if it were the end all be all. In some ways it is, yet some it is not. Just because we pass from hand to hand does not mean we are truely here body mind and soul. and anyone who treds in fear of death walks the thin line between insanity, or a lack of confidence. For in order to accept deaths open embrace, you have to be content in your heart with what you truely are. So although I am not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, and at times I find it really hard to crawl out of bed at the crack of dawn. I realize that our purpose is to pass from one compfortable place to the next. and that in so doing, we are simpley manifestations of a personality on earth. And if the grim reaper were to close my eye lids, and take my cold hand himself. I'd gladly welcome it, for I know that somewhere people will celebrate the grate edition to this earth I have made. Because the plans of which we were born to asemalate are truely our own and noone elses.