The world is a lie.
My friends are a lie.
My family is a lie.
So I slept with my trusty penknife beside me
And reveled in the truth of my dreams.
Within my journey I saw with my soul
The eyes, the body, the light of God,
Whose beauty washed over me,
In rays of comforting sunshine.
As all my pains are swept away,
I braved myself to ask him:
“Tell me the truth.”
And in front of me he replayed
The accident of my birth;
A forgotten routine of the pills
That left my mother to cry
And my father to drink
And my entire life not seeing them
Suffer just for me to get a good education.
He also played to me the whispers
Of my friends that roamed behind my back:
My irrelevant, self-centered comments,
My unnecessary suspicion,
The way I acted upon the world like it revolves around me.
In then in many tongues he opened to me
The tome which I call “life,”
Facing its letters I have to crumble down,
Shattered by this “lie”.
That which I believed, but which I knew
Or tried to know,
Or guess as the world have acted beyond my knowledge.
“They always do for everyone, including me.”
God, all-knowing, answered back.
But I refuse the insolence of the truth
And stabbed God in the chest out of anger.
With a smile he blessed me,
As I sank into darkness,
And wake up to find my penknife
Draining the truth out of my body.
Is it possible to be too honest, or is honesty always the best policy?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us TRUTH.
Yes, two prompts, in a night. I am getting ahead of myself and my plans, but I guess I am just here acting in the spirit of this blog, of that competition, and the entire pursuit of acting out for productivity, even when that pursuit causes me to produce content unmonitored in quality. As such, I tag them horrible, whatever they may be: a poem, a sketch, or a story. And I am proud of their horrid execution.
Anyhow, I have long wanted to write a story about the bleeding man, a legend of an enlightened human waking in meditation to see the real face of God, only to kill It and end It’s divinity. The ending doesn’t go well for the enlightened one, for he wakes up and endures immortality bleeding from a chest wound that does not heal. It was for an imagined novel, and this response is a variation of such.
Hope you enjoyed this morbid twist!
Today’s image citation comes from the banner page of this very interesting website, which out of creepy coincidence resonates with the theme and motifs of this prose poem. Why not visit it and be mystified?