A measure of grief

Small and wimpy you are now. Wounded and dieing. Angered to the core at that cunt of a world that showed no sympathy, but hammered you down till you met the devil living in the depths of hades. Broken with the fall you will not stand up. You can't stand up. All you do is curl up, hoping you'll die fast. A swarming army of memories charge at you striking you with all the deeds that deceived you. The memory of a love that was not love, the memory of care that was not care, the memory of joy that was not joy but his sheer abundant self pleasure. You were an entertainer. A puppet with too long the strings who didn't see what dangled you up from there, cos' he was just too darn up high!

The measure of the wasted few years, lost priorities, bruised emotions, a life no longer fit to live and a face of shame that can not be mended tops off your grief.

Then a ray of light will be shead on you. The warmth makes you seek for it making you crawl out of your misery. You simply need more. More of that shimmer so beautiful, so resurrecting. Its' called a 'new day'. Get up, stand up, walk up and spew the mangy cunt with a flash of life. It will burn, it will melt at your comeback.

How simple the most important things in life. We show a blind eye, maybe laugh at them too and then rush over to the insignificant and try make life out of them.
Meet the simple. The shut down lights. The diamonds in the rough. With them, the measure of grief will sum down to none.

Worlds apart

Delusions of social status is the scream raving through the universe for decades now. A plague, incurable and swift as the wind never to be caught, but spread. A human can be labeled on what one wears? on what one labours for? on what one eats? on what one shits?!

We live in a world of mutualism. Each of us live on each other. Yet, we dare talk about social status? A farmer in the village will harvest the food on your plate tonight and you dare think living in a city of sky scrapers set you apart from all who fight the sun and rain to live its' life? Come to think of it, maybe it does! They are the real high rangers. The fighters of a modern day legacy. While you are the self damned king resting under the wings of the poorly battered legends, who are forgotten cos' your gleaming light of selfish survival is too bright. The souls will weep at the sight of your celebration on life, where you harp about the adventures of taking refuge. And the world; hypnotized by you who are adorned in a marvel of self obsession; listens, applauds and will sing songs of praise. In their eyes you are a living ecstasy, in mine you're a living defeat.

The unsung will always look down on you; from a place way up high, from a place worlds apart.