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The Stranger

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I would post this in the poetry section but for now I don't want to use my username...Anyway, it's the content that matters, yeah?

The Stranger

He's a stranger to himself
His emotions are drained
Stacked away on the shelf
Where they lay contained
His spirit is lifeless
It died long ago
His life is a mess
He has nothing to show
What happened to you
That you became this way?
What did you go through
Why did you fray?
Can't you at least try
To reverse your fate?
Don't try to deny
That all you have left is hate.
Don't you even know
That you have a second chance?
Let your spirit flow
Let it spring into a dance.
There is a God out there
Whom you can turn to
If you just come clean and bare
And allow Him to heal you.
He's the only one left
Who can make you feel again
Even though you are bereft
He can help you laugh again.

I can't relate to you
You can't relate to me
It's over and through
So just let it be.
I'm not on your level anymore
Because I'm beginning to heal
I'm fixing up what I tore
And this time it's real.
So please don't drag me down
You don't understand
Your presence alone causes me to frown
Can't you understand?
I'm trying to let go of the past
And keep moving forward
I want to recover fast
And never fall backward.
But I also want you to be feel the comfort
Of being God's child
You no longer have to hurt
Because that feeling will become mild.
All you have to do is give your life to Him
Because that void can be filled by none other
Stop being so stubborn and grim
And realize that you have a Heavenly Father.

- Viv


From the dark horizon of my future a sort of slow, persistent breeze had been blowing toward me, all my life long, from the years that were to come. And on its way that breeze had leveled out all the ideas that people tried to foist on me in the equally unreal years I then was living through. What difference could they make to me, the deaths of others, or a mother’s love, or his God; or the way a man decides to live, the fate he thinks he chooses, since one and the same fate was bound to “choose” not only me but thousands of millions of privileged people who, like him, called themselves my brothers. Surely, surely he must see that? Every man alive was privileged; there was only one class of men, the privileged class.

With death so near, Mother must have felt like someone on the brink of freedom, ready to start life all over again. No one, no one in the world had any right to weep for her. And I, too, felt ready to start life all over again. It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I’d been happy, and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.
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