This is a poem i wrote last year, and now that i have begun to understand the world around me, this poem seems even more fitting, though this place may not be hell if after death there is indeed no consciousness. here we go anyways:
There is a Hell. You believe there is no God or Satan but there is a hell.
No Fire and Brimstone.
Imagine Darkness.
Imagine worse that Darkness. It is the feeling all light has left, that is has never even existed.
There is no far off echo of warmth offered by a ray of light bravely piercing the black space your soul now restlessly resides.
Imagine Silence.
A space so vast yet so stuffy that a scream goes un-noticed even to you.
Now imagine that every memory of joy, love, and affection is silently swallowed by that never ending expanse. Only to leave you as an empty shell void of all hope and thought. The only thing to accompany is the total lack there-of.
Complete and absolute, nothingness.
It is hopefully helpful for some people to see that if this is what people are living in fear of, then there would not be much hope. Maybe there is in fact some sort of negative energy that we are delved into after we leave the physical realm, but i think this poem talks about an idea of emptiness that may exist, though in reality we may not be aware that is where we are. There are many things to consider with where we end up, and this is a very negative option, but may be close to the truth.
3 comments:
Here is another form of hell telling the story of a man who made choices based not on bravery but on fear, fear of want, fear of unmet needs...
Last Spring 5
The sun’s
docile breath reaches my back
my winter pallid skin
as I walk.
Days,
seasons,
years
eons, it seems
of wind and cloud and watery suns,
other days.
Now
this
last spring
is here.
I feel each footstep, sense each odor
each rush of sea-tinged air,
each urgent draft
reaching,
offering its affectionate refreshment.
This
last spring,
colors seem to catch me.
Is it a condition of the soul
realizing
slavery’s
last spring?
Beginning decades of labor and fear and,
I’m not sure what …
I dug and tunneled my way to
this
last spring.
Scarred linoleum then, wrapped in damaged yellowed paintwork.
worn–down stairs
up
and
down.
I recall most clearly
the down stairs.
Counting, stepping, counting, stepping and counting,
down,
down.
The door in that place was
blistered and splashed with grief
stained with shattered hopes,
the scars of conflict.
The sun saw me little then,
having long since gone to bed,
as
nightstepping across the lot, I ignore the squamous moon.
In those days, those
empty Springs
the sun knew it could not touch me, thickened and thickening,
and
it looked away,
so also the gray flowers,
did not bother to glance at my passing
BOD
Why are you so damn emo?.. Pull the dark hair out of your eyes, take off the black lipstick, and quit being a fag. Words of wisdom.
...from Steve P, so you know who said it.
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