Soul on Paper

During the past two years of my life, I have suffered much loss.  This is the culmination of reactions and feelings I've experienced as a result, and, as it truly is my soul on paper, I wish to share it with anyone who cares to read it.  I am not a poet, writer, or artist of any kind, nor have I ever aspired to be, and this was written with no thought given to rhyme, flow, or form (I've separated and centered the sentences for easy reading, and added italics and bolding for emphasis).  Roughly, it took two hours to pen, and probaly contains many editing errors and flaws.  Please keep this in mind as you read or critique it, if that is your intent.  Please feel free to leave comments.  If anyone can relate, I'd love to hear from you.  Perhaps we can be a needed positve inflence on one another.  May fortune smile on you always.


Image Disclaimer: The required image uploaded with this writing was not done by me, it was done by Lilith Ohan and can be found at this link:

Interestingly, I did not read any of the artist's notes on her drawing prior to uploading, but later found that she was pondering the living being–the soul–that is housed by the body, rather than pondering the body itself.  Lilith has many other pieces that an be seen here:

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

Soul on Paper

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