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.
