I found a diary beneath a tree the other day
and sat down to read a story about responsibility,
destiny, hope, love, and love lost.
There was a hero and a villain, in a true story
wrapped in a plane brown wrapper of parchment.
Plane brown wrappers I have learned
contain the most interesting reading
about everything under the sun.
I think I know how it ends…
Newsstands packed full, preach and teach,
advertise, not so subtly lending a hand to control.
Telling you, how to be, what to where, what to think,
not to think, not to wonder. Ask!
Question the status quo.
I want to be like Mikey likes it he’ll eat anything.
Keep up with the Jones, ignore the man behind the curtain
Spoon-fed on the Tele-dumbing us up, younger and younger
and I’m not finished yet…
I gently turn the weathered pages
of the book that crumbles in my hands
as I learn about doubt,
the reluctance to take the reins of a responsibility
given as a birthright.
It was written with a uniqueness to rival all
and set the standard for a future as yet untold.
It was written in a subtle voice
that would echo for hundreds of thousands of years
and change the world as we know it.
It read of peace starting and ending wars
over words spoken so softly that mountains shuddered.
I’m sure I know how it ends…
This is bull shit! Shit stacked as high as you
walking and talking with forked foreign tongues.
Pointing fingers in every direction except,
laying blame on everything else except,
putting responsibility on everyone else except.
In reading the begets, I think about the first hit,
the first stick, the first weapon, made to kill to eat,
made to defend, to survive,
forged to strike… to suppress opinion.
Violence begets violence as you point your finger
there are three pointed back at you
this should be the end, but I’m not finished yet…
I finished reading about a man in his voice,
told from his view of a world suffering
from violence, hate and anger all beginning from fear.
Fear of others.
Fear of the unknown.
Fear of the grass being greener.
It’s only a theory, but if someone told you
and you could not see it… You would fear it.
It was the diary of a reluctant messiah
that did not preach so much as simply walked and talked
about a place inside that was full of peace and kindness.
This he spoke and his words offended.
It was Chaucer and Shakespeare.
It was Hemingway and Steinbeck.
It was Plato and Mother Goose with twelve men in a tub.
It was Pinocchio begging to be just like everyone else.
there once was a man from Nazareth
whose birth we celebrate on Christmas
spoke of love not violence
and went before Pilate
who washed his hands
and released Barabbas
and got nailed to the cross
that Jack built
The diary had no real ending.
The story stopped halfway through a page
with a thorn as a marker.
The last line in the diary was,
“I do not wish this burden placed upon me,
but if it be your will, and for the sake of all, then so be it.”
I closed the crumbling book that fell to the ground.
It exploded in a cloud of dust
so I could not show it to anyone else, but
you know how it ends.
you have your knowledge your truth your beliefs
but be sure they are your own
have you looked and not prayed
have you read and not asked God to tell you
have you gotten out to meet and greet
shaken hands with different
races cultures and creeds
to understand the who, what and why
of that which you call your culture and your beliefs
are you sure you are not some unrecognized
carbon copy of parental circumstance
would you speak out if the Emperor had no clothes?
earth is decaying,
and mother nature slain
by mankind’s industry will die in a screaming cackle
laughing at the knowing of our suicidal genocide
or genocidal suicide depending on your point of view
even the believers have lost hope
they say were living in the end times
so what’s the point
fear begets anger, begets hate,
all of which beget violence
to see the results of violence
make a fist, the symbol of violence
did your nails in deep
until your own blood is spilt
then opening your hands
the end will become clear
momma said there’d be days like this
but it doesn’t have to be
all of the knowledge is right in front of us
but it seems we only use one percent of our brains
and that must be Adams fault
because he only took one bite of the fruit
I wonder, can anyone tell me,
how much knowledge
was left on the ground