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The Stranger

Discussion in 'I Have a Question...' started by Viv, Feb 27, 2007.

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  1. Viv

    Viv Guest

    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
  2. ThePM

    ThePM Guest

    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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