For Those with Nothing, but Daydream of Everything.
The feeling that stirs in my heart is unworthiness. I am no one, but a zero. In my thoughts I do hope for the best intentions- I only see the smiles of the world. But without money, and independence, we are trapped in the machine of this socio-economic abhorrence- we who are given to this wondrous Earth involuntarily, we who are criminals for having been born at all, we who find Death and ask for delivery from this artificial gloom and doom. What I would give if I could go to a place that does not ask but welcome, where we are not hidden from the raw material that is the basis of our sustenance!
If you're intelligent (but bear most of all unabashed open-mindedness) , you wonder how adamant people cling to their solemnity, ego, and subsequent wretched lifestyle, and see nothing but themselves.
The discord and odd timings of conversation are the sole reasons for misunderstandings. Those who have learned not to let go, in dire need of a comedic spirit, or know not how to release the inner chaos and anguish- suffer. The moment which is ever-fleeting (but which serves paradoxically as an endless welcoming) is all we have my dears.
Sadness can savagely devour all entrails of emotions. In these down-trodden cases, man is a broken shard, longing for his whole and entirety. I am better off finding a way to leave every familiarity be for even a tool becomes wearisome of clumsily building a vulnerable haven.
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Comments about this poem (For Those with Nothing, but Daydream of Everything. by Rafael Cazares )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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