died it

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

  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

well of a question


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.