Sometimes...

Sometimes I ask myself:
What is the point?
Why any of us try
To survive in this joint.
Surely we are kidding ourselves,
We are nothing but books
Stacked neatly on God's shelves.

Sometimes he will take one down,
Read it and frown.
Finally, when the last
Page of a book
Has been read,
He will slam it shut,
And one of us will be dead.

Sometimes, oh, but it is hard
For me to write.
I feel as though I
Put up a feeble fight.
Yet there are times when my writing
Makes me strong.
It is then that I know I am wrong.

Sometimes, when I dwell upon
My seemingly endless life,
I remember the happier moments
Spent with my three daughters and wife.
But alas, God has long since read their books.
At times I feel he only gave
The pages of their lives fleeting looks.

Sometimes I feel bitter inside,
Like a wave crashing
Angrily in the tide.
And yes, there are times when
I feel I have no hope.
No meaning in life,
No scope.

Sometimes I think:
Do I have the right to live?
To breathe the air,
God so graciously gives?
Or do I have no right at all,
To make such fuss,
To kick and bawl?

Sometimes I believe we are
Put solely on this earth to
Struggle and not achieve.
If life is meant to be so
Wonderful and grand,
Why, then, does it feel so
Dull and bland?

Sometimes I know that to others I make no sense,
That the brain in head is nothing but dense.
But of the people I shall take no heed,
For I know God loves to read.
It is know that I vanish.
But this I know before I go,
My book is nowhere near yet finished.