I am so sick for myself

So worried with wandering and wondering

What shall I do next?

There is so little time to do all the things

That I want and dream and see myself

Doing. I strive and I stress

I play the games and talk the talk

Just to be seen.

And why?

To think that I myself matter--

That my own words scrawled

Across this scraggled, screaming page--

Shout to the world--these words?

I am shouting at a world of strangers--

(There are no strangers here, only

Friends we have not met)--

Because I don't know them

And they don't know me.

It is always easier to be honest

To that bare, blank face

That says nothing back.

Nothing you know.

So I write my word--what for?

I have no true voice of my own

And only in words can I see myself

So this is what it is.

A thirst to be seen?

To be affirmed, recognized, considered, commended?

By myself

These strangers--

(There are no strangers here, only

Friends we have not met)

This blank face of the world--

Is not a thing that can see.

I myself have been so inside searching

I've forgotten who the real friends are

Have I met them yet?

The infinite is perfect; it is infinitely perfect,

But perfect is impossible for sinful men like me.

And so we keep on reaching and through hard times progress,

But many will not find the light because they will not guess.

They make observations, put the universe in order;

They give everything a name and place, limits and a border,

Describe things they can't even see and tell us what to know,

But then they say they don't believe in things that we can show

They base their belief in the world round about,

And yet they say that things we know are nothing beyond doubt.

They know there is a mind as well there is a body,

But he who knows the Spirit, he really is somebody.

They say the real world is in the earth, in the air,

But what happens when we go beyond, what happens in Elsewhere?

When science cannot answer it, it must not exist;

A man must kill another for his freedom to persist.

The world goes mad around us, and therefore so do we;

it tells us Truth is not really how we need it to be.

Life is all objective, and yet we have no aim,

We are chemical reactions, and death is just a game.

...

A small something inside you tries to tell you that your wrong,

But the deaf man will not listen when he cannot hear the song.

Be quiet noisy world! Say not another word!

Then maybe in the silence, and answer can be heard.

As fifty times refined by fire

All gold in glory the agony is

Crushed in pain is hearts desire

and now from nothing truly lives

The weak in weakness tear at seams

Their stuff thrown here and there at will

Trampled cloths and trampled dreams

I lay down before you still

Author of storms, You bring the rain

It pours and drowns, drops cold and cool

The sun now burns away the stain

And brings the season of renewal.