This Thing I'm InA Poem by Ememuelle
So what is this thing, this thing I’m in?
Where struggles define from where we begin,
Where people breathe and eat and rest,
And every moment instills a test.
This thing I know not much about,
A façade, a wall, but with what makes the grout?
We do, I think, or so I hear,
But the problems lie where this fact isn’t clear.
What is this thing, this thing that’s here,
Around me now, and still I can’t hear,
I feel, I hurt, I imagine, I dream,
But nowhere in that does this real this thing seem.
I know that its consistency is vast and wide,
And I know that it’s God, not the moon, making the tide,
But what does that say, does it show that I believe,
Or does this mean we’ve created a race of persons naïve?
What we know in our head, is contradicted by our heart,
Resulting in this thing being torn apart,
They lie, they cheat, and we know this for sure,
Yet still we continue to ignore that there is a cure.
This ‘they’ we speak of, I feel holds the key,
To changing the fate of this thing, You see
They are the ones who cut and who sew,
Until the flesh will decide to stop to re-grow.
They pierce and they mend, then they pierce again,
In the knowledge that we relish in this routine of the men,
We know that we do, we do it all the time,
But we don’t understand, our intelligence is a mime
That we can’t see, sometimes.
What is this thing, this thing I’m in,
Where hurting is what makes us stop but begin,
Again, and again, and again, in strife,
This thing I’m in, it is my life.
© 2012 Ememuelle