Repeat, Repeat, Repeat, Reaper..

The woes of living.

Oh here beckons the rooster,
to call another day,
what a cruel creator to make dreams seem like seconds,
and life like hours.
If I had my way, I would dream all day,
just as a futile way to accept life's nature.

My father used to work the seven to five shift,
and in all fairness we made it through the nights.
My mother, as comforting and strong as she was,
could not always fight the good fight.
And there were days, exhausted, that you could see the tears in her eyes,
but still she would say "Praise God" as if it were all right.

I remember as a child life seemed so, so simple.
I would wake up and live, I would await the new "Rocky and Bulwinkle",
I would eat and sleep at leisures content,
I would walk with dirty feet, my energy well spent.
But little did I know, those painted smiles on my parents faces,
were as the church is to the faithful; misleading and hurt.
Enduring teasing pain to live another day,
when deep down inside, you strive towards death.

Now I wake up, and ponder as light breaks in,
what do I want to do with my life?
they say to chase your passion, 
but passion brings no money,
they say to just be happy,
but I have found there is no such thing.

Chemical reactions and hormones galore,
could I make it more straight forward?
there is no soul anymore.
I miss my mother, miss my brothers,
miss the cartoons and the morning pancakes.
Take back the pain and the struggle and the cancers and the constant rain,
take back the fact that this natural pain makes me complain.
Take back the words of those on high horses,
that criticize the suicidal as delusional and stupid.
They are more on point than the most optimistic man would ever be,
give me a reason for life and I'll give you ten it ought not to be.

Till then I openly await winters sweet embrace.
May it perfume my death and do so with grace.
Strip away the jokes and the friends and the illusion of stability.
And what you're left with is the simple equation of life,
repeat, repeat, repeat...until you find the reaper.
repeat, repeat, repeat...until you are old and alone.
repeat, repeat, repeat...all your life you were just a slave.
repeat, repeat, repeat... and then try to repeat it some more.
oh how I welcome death to my door.

Author's Note

it's about the natural pain of living. Just try this: sit there and just feel your body. Doesn't it hurt in such a weird way? Doesn't it all make little sense? Maybe the origin of religion was to do just that- create an excuse to think that life has more than it is. To create and excuse to endure the pain. Even if evolution were right, what is the purpose of survival? I can only believe that somewhere along the road of existence, if forces allow it, that someone will make life meaningful and purpose driven. But even that is as extravagant to believe as anything else. :(

Reviews

[Radad Ibn Nasir]

"But little did I know, those painted smiles on my parents faces,
were as the church is to the faithful; misleading and hurt."

That bit popped out, it definitely struck a chord and really says it all. This is a very fine piece of work, i enjoyed it much!

[Lyr J. Thirsk]

I think its written in a very lucid way, for being full of metaphor....you seem to question everything...i lke that.

purpose? its a question of the young, the fresh. at some point, you make your own purpose. then you lose it. then you make another. then lose that, and make another...etc.... or to paraphrase you..."repeat repeat repeat". that is why you start out as a baby made of feathers and bright light in your eyes, and later on you are made of iron with fire in your eyes...as long as the shining in your eyes doesnt end. you have to be made of iron in this world, and if you arent, then you havent tried to find a purpose. you havnt lost. and losing is life. 'Life is suffering." ghandi said. but there are moments where pasison does make money, and is fuel to move on and stand your ground. i got hopefulness out of your poem, though you may not have intended that...but great job! you have talent.