J Martin Strangeweather

𝗔 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝗱𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝗿

It’s only a poem

hastily written 

before the demons creep back,

and I wish it were better, 

stronger, 

healthier, 

wiser, 

kinder, 

more patient, 

more forgiving.

I wish it could take all your pain 

and turn it to inspiration.

I wish it could take all your doubt 

and turn it to hope.

But it’s only a poem.

And I am just a poet 

in a world of mad god-kings.

𝗤𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀

We poke the sleeping bear

But it’s not really us who pokes the bear

We’re just a branch, broken off and brittle

In the hands of a suicidal history

What’s the use of the hammer

If we can’t see any point for the nail

Or any human endeavor, or humanity itself

The future only promises extinction

We can’t take off the mask

We can only switch it for another

We aren’t wearing the mask

We are the mask, but why

We clearly know why an eye needs light

But why does light need an eye

𝗔𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿𝘀

 

Light made the eye

To capture its fleeting splendor

Otherwise what’s the use

It’s never been about answers

All of our answers are mansions aflame

The whole world is burning in slow motion

It’s always been about creation—

About art and its appreciation

Let the chaos be your forge

Consider the difference 

Between a solution and an answer