Puppets...
Tied by the strings of old traditions,
Controlled by shadows of the past,
Dancing along some foreign tunes,
Moving endlessly and unaware of,
The meanings of their existence...
And puppets are just puppets,
Such are slaves to their [unknown] masters,
Living not a world of their own,
But a play filled with irony and hypocrisy,
Where silence and blindness are the themes...
When the strings are cut, tell me,
What will become of these puppets?
Will they move on their own,
or will they be without power,
For none will determine for them?
So tell me, what will become of us?
The puppets... in a play we call -life-.
Sydney, 30 Oktober, 22:18 pm
30 October 2009
++ Their Tale and Mine ++
It began when the wanderers of the desert,
Heard from the cold whispering wind,
A great tale distorted, of a noble prince,
Who once reigned over an ancient land.
Thus it was out of their [selfish] desire that,
It was eternalised by ink on paper,
To entertain the mind of the unlearned ones,
and be hailed the men of honor and knowledge.
Truly their pens defied them not,
For the written fascinated not just one or two,
But the whole kingdom and its neighbour,
And it became life for those who purchased it.
Ah, can they not see! They live by the tale,
Unaware that their present is just the past revisited?
And the future remains an empty canvas,
For the same colour to be repainted over.
Ah, can they not see the mirage from the oasis?
They wish to become the beloved prince alike,
But the tale they live is [truly] one of the fallen warriors,
From an enemy kingdom, disguised as the noble prince.
Woe, what then becomes of me?
I desire to paint over my life a thousand other colour,
To write my own tale with my heart as its ink,
My reason its paper and my belief its binder.
You see, I'm different from them - and perhaps, you,
Will you then brand rebel upon my forehead?
Will you severe my hands so I write not my own life?
Will you blind my vision so I find not my own path?
Do you know? I just wish to be me.
Leave me be.
Sydney, 22 Oktober 2009, 11.34
Heard from the cold whispering wind,
A great tale distorted, of a noble prince,
Who once reigned over an ancient land.
Thus it was out of their [selfish] desire that,
It was eternalised by ink on paper,
To entertain the mind of the unlearned ones,
and be hailed the men of honor and knowledge.
Truly their pens defied them not,
For the written fascinated not just one or two,
But the whole kingdom and its neighbour,
And it became life for those who purchased it.
Ah, can they not see! They live by the tale,
Unaware that their present is just the past revisited?
And the future remains an empty canvas,
For the same colour to be repainted over.
Ah, can they not see the mirage from the oasis?
They wish to become the beloved prince alike,
But the tale they live is [truly] one of the fallen warriors,
From an enemy kingdom, disguised as the noble prince.
Woe, what then becomes of me?
I desire to paint over my life a thousand other colour,
To write my own tale with my heart as its ink,
My reason its paper and my belief its binder.
You see, I'm different from them - and perhaps, you,
Will you then brand rebel upon my forehead?
Will you severe my hands so I write not my own life?
Will you blind my vision so I find not my own path?
Do you know? I just wish to be me.
Leave me be.
Sydney, 22 Oktober 2009, 11.34
15 October 2009
++ My Way ++
You may frown and be bewildered by my ignorance,
For I deny -your- version of truth and reality!
You may condemn me and brand me a rebel,
For I object to be shackled by the traditions of our forefathers.
You may belittle me and say that I’m an untutored youth,
For I seek not the knowledge from the elitists.
You may spit on my face and shun me for my difference,
For I would rather be an outcast than living in a world of hypocrisy!
You may ridicule and laugh at the sealing of my lips,
For I wish not to utter what you utter; nay, unless with an understanding!
You may laugh and disregard me for my deafness,
For I choose to not listen to the idle tales of the past.
You may disgrace me and treat me like a criminal,
For I refuse to be confined behind a barrier you have imposed upon me.
Nay, nothing you do will ever change my way.
I have discovered what it is that adds to my life.
It’s not about having my existence painted in black and white,
It’s not about facing towards the East or the West,
And surely it’s not about being uniform from head to toe.
It is about striving for what I truly believe in,
And walking the path I have chosen for myself.
By the passage of time, to you I shall declare:
I am who I am and never will I be like you!
Nor will I submit to your criterion of life,
To you be your Way, and to me Mine.
Sydney, 14 Oktober 2009 (01:23)
For I deny -your- version of truth and reality!
You may condemn me and brand me a rebel,
For I object to be shackled by the traditions of our forefathers.
You may belittle me and say that I’m an untutored youth,
For I seek not the knowledge from the elitists.
You may spit on my face and shun me for my difference,
For I would rather be an outcast than living in a world of hypocrisy!
You may ridicule and laugh at the sealing of my lips,
For I wish not to utter what you utter; nay, unless with an understanding!
You may laugh and disregard me for my deafness,
For I choose to not listen to the idle tales of the past.
You may disgrace me and treat me like a criminal,
For I refuse to be confined behind a barrier you have imposed upon me.
Nay, nothing you do will ever change my way.
I have discovered what it is that adds to my life.
It’s not about having my existence painted in black and white,
It’s not about facing towards the East or the West,
And surely it’s not about being uniform from head to toe.
It is about striving for what I truly believe in,
And walking the path I have chosen for myself.
By the passage of time, to you I shall declare:
I am who I am and never will I be like you!
Nor will I submit to your criterion of life,
To you be your Way, and to me Mine.
Sydney, 14 Oktober 2009 (01:23)
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