Some attempts at Prose

Talk with 'god'

A cold draft flows through my window, while these words to paper I sow. Looking at my curtains flapping in the chill night air, I run my hand through my hair, and mumble a simple prayer. But why do I speak to an invisible being? Can this so called ‘god’ know what I am even seeing. The books claim he is true, they claim that he watches each one of you. What about me, do I have a plan, or do I wander through streets senselessly? Give me a purpose, give me a plan, you self righteous ‘god’ who was created by man. Are you even a entity worthy of a name? One so revered that in your so called ‘favour’ millions slain? I think we need to sit and have a talk, talk about the weather, your plans, and why so many have forgot. Forgot about what you ask? Simply human responsibility you arrogant ass.

So our conversation began, and it went well I believe. I was answering my own questions, to his relief. He never provided an answer that night, just simply waved goodbye. Then he said that I will never see him when I die. I was content, I waved him farewell. Because I sit here in life, the real hell.



Truths of my Mind

I want to make you smile in the sun, make you laugh in the breeze. End wars without the use of a gun, and watch everyone fall to their knees. To apologize for atrocities occurred, to forgive each others actions. Let peace treaties be served, and reunite all of the severed factions. Rise against the one evil within this life; the one thing that will destroy us all. Rise against famine, rise up against all strife; Erase the memories and burn pages that once appalled. From the slates wipe them clean, the chalk blown in the wind. Tabula Rasa, call forth a new scene; One where there is no death, and all of man is kind.

The sorrowful thing to my thoughts and dreams; is the fact that none of it will ever be seen. Mankind sits happily in his misery, sits in despondence without fight. Could walk away, and easily see serenity. But greed has blinded from him this light. To the children we cast guns, and animosity. Rather than pressuring love and responsibility. Damning the generations below us, we lose our trust. The next generations motto “World Destruction or Bust!”. Please awake to see where we have failed, see what we have missed. Look to the poor, to the puddles in which they must piss. They have no home, they are intoxicated with alcohol and nothingness. While the ones who sit up high, ignore problems and live in bliss. For the vagabond has nothing, he has no home. Nothing to save for, nowhere to rest, cursed to forever roam.