poesy.

You should not write of God, they said,
For (hadn’t you heard?)
He is most certainly dead,
Because we said that we had killed Him.
You should not write of God, they said,
You’ll simply sound absurd
And end up dusty and unread,
Piled up with other antiquated notions (like sin).

You should rather write of your Self,
Of self-sufficient life and joy and health,
They say,
Apparently oblivious to the way
We happily deceive ourselves
Almost every single day.

You should not write of God, they shout,
For (don’t be superstitious!)
He does not exist
(And we would much rather do without).

It’s difficult, at times,
To not be envious
Of those who drift their way through life
Easy and oblivious.
“Blessed are the shallow,”
Blissful are the blind,
How happy are the ignorant,
Who never plumb their darkened minds.

What I would give (and take away)
That I could live (on certain days)
Without the nagging consciousness
Of solemn, heavy promises.
Some days I wish most longingly
That awful curse were laid on me.