The human heart is fake. It has to break. Shutter. For the real Love cannot be hold in matter or concept, or anything. It is free. We have to keep breaking our hearts till they open, and within we shall find the true heart. Real heart. Love that expands throughout the whole Cosmos, connected to all there is. The Real Love. This superficial love we feel... The substitute of love... it is not love at all. All it is - is attachment. Codependency addiction illusion desire story want need lie It is not true. It cannot be, for the true Love is none of those things. We have to dig deeper. Demolish the walls of our hearts, so it can breathe. So it can connect with all there is, so it can be one again. Not separate. Separate is not real. It’s fake! Our identity, feeling of isolation, of lack... How can we lack anything, if we are one? Everyone is destined for a heartbreak, and for a human - there is no greater agony. This is it. It's death. The end. Cling to the agony as much as you
2023-290 Weep for the children by pearwood, literature
Literature
2023-290 Weep for the children
Never have two peoples had such valid, millennia-old, claim to the same little strip of land. Never have two peoples given each other such valid reason to hate. Each side's treatment of the other has been utterly understandable. Each side's treatment of the other has been utterly barbaric. Both sides are right. Both sides are dead wrong. Weep for the children who bear the brunt of our madness. Where are the peacemakers who will risk all to forgive the unforgivable? For it is the only way out.
I want to destroy everything Myself All the things around me The whole Universe I just can't handle it Myself All the things around me The whole Universe I want it all to blow up To shatter I wish it could all stop existing At least for a moment I think it would make me feel better For a while For a moment For a second at least This relief is my dream My only dream My ultimate goal My only hope Without it I don't know what to do How can I move on? When all the space that I could use Is filled With this gooey, black tar And I can't move I try to run But there is no escape Without someone's help I have to survive Because I have to survive I'm conditioned to that I don't want to die I don't plan to die I won't ever try to die But I wonder Why the suicidal rates Are so low these days?
My mind's a little woozy And I'm feeling kinda snoozy Tryina help by getting boozy But I guess I'm just too oozy My heart acts so goddamn choosy Maybe I'll just use an Uzi Sitting covered with my hoodie Watching some old groovy movie People say I am just lazy Although I feel rather crazy My days seem so fricking lousy Least my hair could not be frowzy Others act so easy-breezy Working hard and staying busy How can someone not feel schizzy? All my being's always fizzy How they are not even dizzy? It's like pizza that's not cheesy Perhaps I chose being screwy Jumped in darkness which was gluey Yet at first seemed very dewy I swear it was goody-goody Now my body's getting woody And my floor is kinda bloody
the winds are slow for now, for now yet the sky is green as can be seen and the winds will grow until every wish and will to stand gives way and every flower- bearing stem will bend and every flower say where is the blue sky? when will it return? oh, the words told by the lovely green sky, they were a lie, a lie!
The wall has turned Its back on the poem The jar is less certain It is open to persuasion The poet goes between What refuses, what is open The poet and the poem Go between
Calling on the youth of all nations, is how it begins. It is a kind of prayer. Not to heaven above but to earth around, to those who see and read and not only to them but to all who could read if they were here, and it is this call, this summons to all, that makes it prayer. A prayer of metal, a prayer cut into, out of metal. You have the power to change the world, the metal words say. Create a better future for all humanity, the metal words pray. Calling to all but singling out the young who have more time than the old. While the old may have more of any other power, the young have the power of time. And which counts for more? The old man with seven years of life left? The girl with seventy or eighty? Perhaps the one, perhaps the other. The prayer sides with the young. The world goes on being the world. The future goes on being the future. The prayer goes on being the prayer. I see your doubtful, hopeful face through the words cut into, out of
Say these are strings of a harp, not fibers of fabric worn out, giving way. Say that collage is the score, and those who can read it will play. You are the center of things, you are the centered surprise-- saying that you have no voice, hinting at song with your eyes.