Soul on Paper

I've traveled this earth many years, my soul never finding rest

In the darkest days I curse how I have been made; complexities never allowing me to plane, enduring the wrath of my ignorance

Looking back I see the earthquake again, growing numb to present tense

Never equipped for the journey; simply being I've not understood

My envy of those who understand is great; the smallest I must commend

Thirsty and weak, my soul is condemned to roam a parched land; peace is not mine to be had

As a dead man with no home, through the sun and wind I wander

Is it my turn to understand, I wonder, but hold little hope

The restlessness has always been; trying in vain, I've failed to satisfy its crushing thirst

This life I have not understood

Yet the heart that beats inside is not black; it longs for life and ability, for repayment of good for good

It thirsts for simple revelation of that which is misunderstood

I do not know how to live, it laments, remembering the miss-beats of its past

Remembering mountains, remembering valleys

Remembering ill-comprehended victories and defeats, it slows a little more

Having seen and done much but still failing to find true life or castle, it blasphemes existence again

Playing the hand that has been dealt, it crawls towards a future unknown, eyes made weary by a lifetime of battles

Lacking the truth of its purpose and reaching for the prosperity promised by peace, it fails to take hold

What is missing is never known; its misunderstanding its curse to bear

It wants to know

It cries in torment for the simplest of knowledge, but drought and dust are all that is found

Still wondering

Still wandering

The number of future battle scars a mystery, though many have long been endured

Only strengthened flesh allowing survival

Crawling in the dust it now looks, but does not believe

It has searched the ends of existence, not yet attaining what is sought

To live is all it wishes, to understand all it wants

The Book is Being Written

How we observe and how we reflect.

The Dreary Faceless

The observations and reflections of a traveller in a foreign land.

The Model House

The facades of a perfect home.

The Woman Who

This peom is about a woman in my life, who is suppose to be there for me but is not.

IdEgo

Dreams, desires, id and ego.