It's hard to see

It's hard to see how physical emotions can be,
if haven't felt, the light hasn't arrived, the time
stopped still, the pain broken the heart, the 
longing like an open wound of a missing a limb.

The one capable of working and loving is healthy?

It doesn't mean doing the same job or loving the same
person, there's different times in life, life's not to be
controlled but lived. Longing and grief are no illnesses but 
emotions capable of making ill, without the one one might
be lost, like a postman without the post, a wolf in the 
forest licking the wounds - slowly dying - inside?

It's hard to imagine, how concrete is the longing, if
oneself is only boring, a bureaucrat, an aristo without
a crate, a technocrat with no luck, a longing living 
dead doesn't make the life untrue nor the machines
making the humanity nonexistent - nor unnecessary. 

It's hard to imagine how it feels when
someone is dear if nothing is dear but money, 
sacrificing even the children for the lust or
fame, throwing the love away like a napkin if no
results nor ants in the pants though the reason's
in one's own hand, lack of joy or passion, 
pack of bad choices?

It's hard to imagine being poor or
without chances when given it all, 
without diseases, all mighty fine 
without having to be afraid of one's
life. It's hard to imagine, hard to be told.

It's hard to ride without a pony but
the pony won't help without the will, 
life can only be lived by living, feeling 
it in the guts and bones, it's no fairytale,
an adventure tour, a detective story nor a 
theory. It's no circus nor a play, it's not 
a game nor a lavish buffet.

It's hard to ride if only an imaginary horse, 
without time (=dare)to live(=feel). Life's no 
gimmick ride nor a look-mom-what-i've-got-fair.
It's hard to know what it takes to sacrifice 
one's life or feel the heat, take the beat, get
over the sticks and stones, fighting for the 
loved ones what ever and who ever they may be.

It's hard with or without?

Taking time doesn't always mean meaningful 
sometimes the most meaningful is in time.
The emptiness won't be filled with the cheese.

It's hard to imagine someone else's pain 
as well as it's blessed, except when meaning
being a self-centered brat, spoiled and cruel,
misusing, self-seeking ass, polishing one's 
deeds with some good deeds and merciful pieces 
like crumbs nothing filling the well not washing
away the pain, living is not the fame, the love and
the life must be felt, they can't be won in a game.

It's hard to imagine if hasn't been getting nor having
it's hard to give up or give out without becoming aware,
it's hard to live fearing the death, it's hard to die if
not been able to live, it's hard to live like a living dead
and no picnic to be alive either but the only way there is

to be alive, to live without regrets.

What's the name if no game, what's the fame if no children,
what's the kids, if all's but vain, what's the life if no
guts to live it - feeling your feelings alive.

There's no pill for the fear of living, 
no therapy bringing the will. Life has to
be faced and felt, no living if living in
shell lust of life coming from learning to
love and looking for those to live for.

Life is in the little moments passing by
never returning, now is never bending nor
filling more though trying. Just a moment. 
Doing nothing for a awhile one can see the
magic - the flower or the finger, asking 
oneself who wouldn't save the world drowning
in trash, sucking it dry leaving ruins behind
looking for the next one thinking it'll make 
the children ok painting the world a greener place?

Believing, hoping and trusting? Loving the human race? 
It's no sacrifice living out what's feeling inside. 

The truth? There's no truth. There's only
the life and if not living it, the next won't 
arrive, the life is love and withoutthere's
nothing more? You're not living in your children
though your children once lived in you and from you. 
Without love there's no life, no life without being alive.

Love's no automaton but arriving only in time, 
taking the time and effort, taking care of the 
existing. Loving is literally falling - an 
uphill all around without pedalling withdrawing
and on the top again falling to the airy plains. 

A new hole? Ashes and bones?

Seems like climbing? The living picture is
still a picture not reality. A real life.

A sculpture making a frame out of a wire? 
Little clay and the mold of plaster, 
casting and blowing? Voilá? Hopefully 
the blowing "thingy" wasn't blown away?