More poems by Pandora_knows_all

Page One

I'm not sure what to call myself;

Am I believer of miracles? Or a doubter of souls?

Do I believe my body's only a short-lived temple?

Or an animal with only a list of goals?

I know that this earth is no accident, nor a theory,

But how do I find the truth in this world grown dreary?


I know that there's a force at work,

A spirited martyr who loves this place,

But my eyes can't find its rebirth,

And I once more stray away.

I know I'm meant to give the world my gift,

But it's hard to do so when I don't know what it is.


I hope my relations to this world do not dwindle,

Hope they do not wither & die,

But every person I look at has gone more than a little,

And leaves me down a dry.

Though I sob for those who've gone,

I know I must wait & then proceed to dawn.


I'm not sure what to label myself,

Don't know if I'll ever be like one of the apostles of twelve,

But I will not throw my hard work away;

I am willing to talk to you, God, each day.