I’m thinking of those that i don’t like—
those that did me wrong, and are obnoxious,
people that are all too much alike,
and, as such, would be less real than a cuss
word—shared with those that don’t believe.
And yet, I was obnoxious in many ways,
before realizing the love I receive,
and so some, i think, will take what He pays
when He would let them into heaven.
Certainly then, in remembering this life,
we’ll all be humbled and soon forgiven,
indefinitely, upon facing this strife—
and understanding our placement, there.
Some, then, to what might be my chagrin,
will advance, and flourish, under His care.
It’s a good thing since, well, we all sin,
and are in need of guidance. I suppose
it’s the ego in me that reacts to
the ego in others—doing, as it goes,
what keeps me from the light I’d woo,
if, for example, they were available,
as opposed to assuming some ill-begot
spotlight that only reveals what’s null
and void—a joke that misses the spot.
I wonder, too, if I should long for love
because, in some ways, I work too hard,
instead of focusing on the path above,
leading, as it would seem, to His bard,
my predecessors, altogether, that made
me what I am. I think i don’t need it—
the worldly love, that is, that i dissuade,
when I aim for a beauty beyond respite,
a woman I cannot earn. I need, instead,
to be easy on myself, forgiving this
shortcoming—so many thoughts in my head,
thoughts that interfere with His bliss,
and make it impossible for me to make
money—not, perhaps, all it’s cracked up to
be, but, nonetheless, essential to awake
the love, in others, that I would sue,
if I didn’t understand the weight i wield,
and the promises of a mental illness.
I’m sick because there’s nothing to shield
me from extinction—the life i address,
here and now, cannot support another.
So, to compensate, i would work to no end,
when there’s no changing the lot I stir,
when, as it happens, i aim to send
my words to an ever distant future.
I need, then, to accept my condition—
be kind, look after myself, and secure
the life I’d lead, if, haply, i had no mission,
and a woman lived squarely at my side.
Only then will i find myself at peace,
choosing the love that I would abide,
if I could somehow pay for its lease.
Happiness is the path itself—there’s no
achieving it, or finding it, thinking we’ll
be worthy, soon, of His answer, and go
to our happy ending, as if we’d feel
different, somehow, than we do right
now, treating ourselves exactly the same,
once, that is, we fall short of His light,
regressing, then, to the mean we shame.