All there is is you... |
Sometimes I ask myself: What is the point? Why any of us try To survive in this joint. Surely we are kidding ourselves, We are nothing but books Stacked neatly on God's shelves. Sometimes he will take one down, Read it and frown. Finally, when the last Page of a book Has been read, He will slam it shut, And one of us will be dead. Sometimes, oh, but it is hard For me to write. I feel as though I Put up a feeble fight. Yet there are times when my writing Makes me strong. It is then that I know I am wrong. Sometimes, when I dwell upon My seemingly endless life, I remember the happier moments Spent with my three daughters and wife. But alas, God has long since read their books. At times I feel he only gave The pages of their lives fleeting looks. Sometimes I feel bitter inside, Like a wave crashing Angrily in the tide. And yes, there are times when I feel I have no hope. No meaning in life, No scope. Sometimes I think: Do I have the right to live? To breathe the air, God so graciously gives? Or do I have no right at all, To make such fuss, To kick and bawl? Sometimes I believe we are Put solely on this earth to Struggle and not achieve. If life is meant to be so Wonderful and grand, Why, then, does it feel so Dull and bland? Sometimes I know that to others I make no sense, That the brain in my head is nothing but dense. But of the people I shall take no heed, For I know God loves to read. It is now that I vanish. But this I know before I go, My book is nowhere near yet finished. |