He believed, then doubted, then died it Creativity was his door to become more Poetry and prose were the tears that he cried, and he toiled with the question: What was it all for? Doubt was the dust infiltrating even his purest intention Now he lies spent like rain in the grass, tears on a tissue, lipstick on a glass Not even the universe affords him attention He always believed too much, and proof was never important as such If he liked it, he deemed it to be true, even if experts were cleverer and knew His world, perhaps, was slightly askew Belief was like a train: Up front the idea, creditability and fame …so far so good Followed by wagons of responsibilities, too many to name …that was the drudge Suddenly a yardstick emerged with which he was judged (his ideas) Yes, he believed a lot But, certainly didn’t want to be put on the spot for that which he called ‘the smoke from his pot’ It wasn’t religion or philosophy or such, they were ideas, life’s attempts at art with a smudge Believing was more like following a trail Not weighing each thought or step on a scale T'was an indication of an approximate direction, and was prone to frequent correction Believing and doubting were forever composing, One minute blissfully flying over harmonies crest, euphorically losing control in the zest and then, crashing into the trough of Wagner’s gloomiest best He was cog and engine in a perpetually opposing quest Shattered belief, triumphant doubt, sometimes one or the other acted out A farmer of conflict, a dreamer of hope, ever the next wave of life should puzzle it out Liberally sown by doubt the seeds of conflict abound That’s why believing in dreams is so very allowed But, dreams are also the food which conflict gobbles to sprout and once it has grown it smothers the dreams so they lose the belief in their own If life was nurtured by believing in dreams, no matter how irrational they seemed and doubt destroys them with such might undoubdetly, he thought, he had just died
The biggest question for me:
Why am I not a tree,
…instead of this human be?
A question going deeper than space,
a well and the sea
And, does the tree ask why it ‘s not me?
Because of What, am I this human dot?
Come, give your answer an honest shot.
Am I still becoming a star?
Or, maybe a whole galaxy afar?
Why am I the one I be?
Happenstance, fluke, — tell me?
Of course, they will quote:
The answer is somewhere in
religion, philosophy and G . d’s boat
Academia might also have something they wrote
Surely though, you don’t still believe all this trap?
Man-made bloat and a heap of (s)crap
I wanna know why I am not a tree?
And, answering ‘because!’ gets me no closer to me
I am not a tree, so much in the mirror I see
But then the ideas of who I really am leave me be
Sunk in a question most important to me
My ship’s pondering and crisscrossing that sea
Cleverists answer: “you are whatever you want to be,”
Damn! It still doesn’t tell me why I am not a tree
Because no matter how hard I try to be,
a tree stays a tree and I am me, and who is he?
Even now there is still no answer, you see?
Mayhaps the tree is inside me or I am in the tree?
Quite crazeely confused ’bout everything,
— that’s me.