Humans are imperfect beings,

The trouble is they so like 'doing'.

They so wish for such 'wrong' things,

It's that bloody head that they keep 'wooing'.

They 'do' more things,

And their mind takes 'wings'.

They lose themselves,

In 'gold' that stings.

Cars and trinkets,

Fill their minds.

When hearts and souls,

Would be far more kind.

Things 'out there' never succeed,

And yet this life is full of greed.

Still there's hope in a little seed,

That says less is more, with less speed.

That escaping life to get away,

From 'normal' life that takes place each day.

By 'buying' more things that distract the mind,

Only prostitutes you and makes you 'blind'.

There's also work that always stops you,

From looking in to find the pain.

We fill our day with endless stuff,

And that's what drives anyone insane!

In doing so, we neglect to look,

Inside us, where all pain resides.

We think we'll avoid it by looking away,

But that is where all hope abides.

Some run faster until they die,

Thinking they can leave it all behind.

Some just run and fall each day,

Hoping sleep will wash it away.

But there's nowhere to go,

In this life of ours.

To avoid who we are,

We simply devour.

The truth inside,

The past in us.

The answer to,

Our human truss.

Humans are imperfect beings,

The trouble is they so like 'doing'.

They so wish for such wrong things,

It's the heart they need to now start 'wooing'.

What thoughts does this poem raise for you?

Les

A Moodscope member.