�James Dean Is Dead�

Does anyone know why we come into this world
And why the planet was already here waiting for us
What is the purpose of our visit
Or should there even be a reason
Is existence just existing or does being here automatically have some other great significance
Does the air know something that we have to spend our whole time finding out
Or does the mud know nothing and so sits and watch us bump into one another
Does the land expand with each new born
Or does the sky cry with another passenger
Do we really come round again
Or do we just fade away?

What were your first words
What will be your epitaph
Is the importance with what was spoken during the space in between
Will I be heralded as some kind of saint for saying a simple thank you
Or will I be dragged across the coals for speaking the truth
Do we really need manners, principles, peace and love
When we can see the sea level rise and the rape of the bible
But we still do nothing about our surroundings except complain
With every greedy, needy human that is reflected everywhere
How can I walk safely through this life and survive with this dread
And why am I sitting here lonely in my house with just these questions in my head
Like, “How can I keep on living in a world where someone like James Dean is dead”.
    


 

Reviews

[Gary H]

There's a lot of anger nestling in this. Dare I say too much in case I offend you - he says quaking in his boots (er, slippers...) I find the most perfect line is 'What is the purpose of our visit' - a line that opens up so much debate, sadly not heard in your local pub but Steven Hawkings could give a few suggestions - as to whether he has to answer to why we are here and James Dean isn't, remains to be seen.

I like the idea of the sky crying. Brings to mind lots of images.

[~angelalala~]

i absolutely love this poem. so dark & intriguing. its like you've read my mind, i ask myself these questions (or something similar) every day. beautifully written. flow is smooth. & i love the title. well done.