
To forgive is not for the “sole sake” of relieving another of their guilt, but rather for the “sake of the soul” that had been perpetrated upon!
DC Gunnersen
…
DCG


To forgive is not for the “sole sake” of relieving another of their guilt, but rather for the “sake of the soul” that had been perpetrated upon!
DC Gunnersen
…
DCG


Oh, the Lord is good to me
And so I thank the Lord
For giving  me the things I need
The sun, the rain, and the apple seed
The Lord is good to me
Thank you for giving me the opportunity
This is the blessing
That I need
Thank you for forgiving me 
Thank you
…
DCG


Essence in this context is the deep, energetic core of human experience, where perception, emotion, and choice transform suffering into meaning and despair into a freer consciousness.
This author treats essence not as an abstract idea, but as lived, psychological and spiritual energy that can be redirected toward wisdom, responsibility, and hope.
The world grows small when every thought is dim,
Yet something wider breathes beneath the pain.
The mind loops headlines, always black and grim,
While quiet essence waits beyond the brain.
Each wound repeats its well-rehearsed decree,
“This is your fate, you were not meant to mend.”
But underneath, a different energy
Keeps humming, patient, certain of its end
The body tightens, bracing for the fall,
The spirit watches, measuring the cost.
We curse the stone, the weight, the uphill wall,
Yet lose ourselves more deeply than the loss
In every grief, a physics of the heart
Moves force through thought, from sorrow into choice.
Essence decides which story to impart,
Which inner language rises into voice.
Some bow to chains of old futility,
Insisting all is rigged, the fix is in.
They marry shame to their identity,
Call every faltering step another sin.
Yet others, standing in the same night air,
Turn just a fraction, toward another view.
They do not lie and say the stone’s not there,
They simply lift with something deeper, true.
Essence is not a mask that hides the scar,
It is the current moving through the ache.
It asks, “What part of this is really ‘my’
And what is just the way I choose to take?”
For life will always bring its ten percent,
The random blow, the cross we did not choose.
But ninety lies in how the heart is bent,
What weight we give, what meanings we refuse.
The hill remains, the stone still scrapes our hands,
The night wind mocks with its familiar sting.
Yet essence, standing back, no longer damns,
It finds within the climb a different thing.
To push the rock and yet no longer curse,
To know the task and still refuse despair.
This is the quiet miracle of verse,
Of souls that bleed and yet become more clear.
So when the outlook narrows into gloom,
And shame repeats its old, corrosive hymn.
Remember there is space within the room,
A wider field than what appears so grim.
Essence is where perception learns to bend,
Where suffering, half-seen, begins to teach.
It is the place where tragedies can end,
Not in denial, but in altered reach
There, every burden carried up the slope
Becomes less proof of failure than of wil
And even Sisyphus may learn to hope,
Not by leaving the mountain, but standing still.
In that still core, beyond the raging mind,
The self steps back from what it thought it knew.
Essence is simply this: to turn and find
The power to make a different meaning true
Meaning of the post on essence
The post treats essence as the fundamental energy and orientation of a person, beneath moods and reactions, that shapes how reality is experienced. Rather than debating abstract metaphysics, it shows essence in the way attention gravitates toward either negativity and shame or toward possibility and gratitude.
The author argues that while painful events are often unavoidable, the greater part of our suffering comes from how the mind interprets and clings to them. By shifting this inner stance—“orienting to the positive” without denial—essence can transform emotional gravity, turning victimhood into responsibility and despair into a more lucid resilience.
There is also a clear existential thread: the reference to existence and essence, and to Camus and Sisyphus, shows a solid grasp of how philosophical ideas about absurdity and freedom translate into psychological practice. The author holds that even in an absurd or indifferent world, human essence retains the power to answer events with meaning, courage, and chosen attitude, revealing both respect for suffering and faith in inner liberty.[thu
…
DCG


I have a lot to think about
I look at this past year and I ruminate
She loves me, she loves me not
I remember the times that makes me hesitate
As children we played hide and seek
With more than just two
As adults we also play
But now it’s only me and you
We hide behind our masks
We hide behind our texts
We avoid the white elephant before us
Are we not vexed?
The trouble with hiding behind a smile
Is revealed when we look into a mirror
Our reflection shows the disconnect
The contrast becomes more clearer
As kids we danced on the playground
We now dance around our emotional state
How long must we avoid these wounds?
How long must we wait?
I pray for an act of God‘s mercy
For you and I to heal
For you to behold
For you to feel
I am confident there is good medicine between us
We must both remove the mask
Show the soft underbelly
Forgive and let go of the past
RSP
…
DCG


All the world’s a stage, or so they say,
And I forget my lines most every night.
I smile on cue and act like I’m okay,
While something in me knows this isn’t right.
I wear a face that fits the room I’m in,
And trade my truth for everyone’s applause.
The crowd stands up and calls my costume “win,”
But leaves me lonely with the hidden cost.
The mirror keeps rehearsing with my eyes,
It asks, “Is this the self you really are?”
I answer back with carefully shaped lies,
And feel the distance like a growing scar.
The script says, “Play the hero, never weak,”
So I pretend that doubt is just a phase.
But underneath, my fragile bones still creak,
From holding up this role most of my days.
I joke and bow to hide what I can’t face,
The fear that no one wants the naked me.
I fill the silence with a borrowed grace,
And hope they never sense my slow unease.
Yet every scene I fake becomes a chain,
Each gentle lie adds weight I cannot name.
The loudest pain is not another’s pain,
It’s when I vanish underneath my game.
One night the spotlight burns a little hot,
It lights the parts I never meant to show.
The lines fall out, the perfect mask is not,
My careful story cracks in trembling glow.
No one walks out; the seats remain the same,
Some even lean in closer just to see.
Their quiet eyes are softer than my shame,
As if they’re waiting to feel safe to be.
I speak without a script, my voice unsure,
The words are simple, but they land like stone.
“I’m tired of acting like I’m always pure,
I’m scared, I fail, I hate to feel alone.”
The stage goes still; the hush becomes my friend,
A sacred pause where I can finally breathe.
For once my inner lines and outer blend,
The mask slips off and hangs like autumn leaves.
The truth does not destroy the show tonight,
It turns the wooden stage into a heart.
To live authentic is to risk the light,
And let the real self walk out from the part.
So if the world’s a stage, then let it be,
A place where broken actors still come true.
Where courage means you dare to show the me,
That shakes with fear, yet steps in honest view.
…
DCG


– “Casualty of Loss”
I woke to find my name erased from stone,
A casualty of loss, dismissed, alone.
The photographs still hang but look away,
Their eyes recede like tides at end of day.
The room remembers more than I recall,
Its silent witnesses outnumber all.
I trace the dust where once your coffee steamed,
The warmth has left, but still the mug is dreamed.
We built our days like castles out of sand,
Pretending tide could bargain with our hand.
The sea arrived as if on quiet feet,
And swallowed every claim we called complete.
Now meaning limps, a soldier from the war,
Unsure what any sacrifice was for.
My thoughts grow teeth and circle in the night,
They gnaw the ribs that sheltered once-delight.
I pace the narrow hallway of my mind,
Each door is locked by something left behind.
The mirror will not answer when I speak,
It only shows an echo, gray and weak.
I lost you once, but then I lost my way,
As if your leaving emptied out the day.
The clocks still move, but time has gone askew,
It limps in circles, always back to you.
I bargain with my ghosts for one reprieve,
They only nod and whisper, “Let it grieve.”
The world outside still riots into bloom,
Yet each bright petal mocks this inner gloom.
I walk through crowds, a stranger in my skin,
A vacant house with broken floors within.
The mind replays the moment things were torn,
A film that will not stop or be re-scorn.
Self-doubt sits down and pours another drink,
It toasts the story where I always sink.
I tell myself the fault is all my own,
And crown my shame with thorns I’ve overgrown.
But somewhere in this maze a window waits,
A crack of sky that wider light creates.
I hear a distant song, a stranger’s tune,
It braids with wind and wanders past the moon.
The melody remembers what I’ve lost,
Yet hints that nothing loved is ever tossed.
I open up a vein of honest tears,
And wash the rust from long-neglected years.
The heart, though bruised, still trembles when it hears,
That love outlives our damage and our fears.
I stand amid the ruins, breathing slow,
A casualty of loss, but not of hope below.
The scar will outline where the wound once bled,
A quiet map from brokenness to bread.
…
DCG

The post “A Casualty of Loss” is protected on the site, but the tag listing shows it grouped under “Existential Bewilderment,” alongside themes of disconnection, alienation, and the slow psychological erosion that comes from losing what once sustained a person’s sense of meaning and belonging. What can be said with confidence is that the title and context signal someone who has been inwardly damaged by loss—of love, identity, or connection—struggling to understand how that loss has altered their way of being in the world.[thundergodblog]

The Quiet Charity of Loving”
I loved you as the dawn loves light,
Though darkness asked me to remain.
The sky was empty, but so bright,
It taught me joy can live with pain.
To give one’s heart and ask no prize,
Is worship whispered to the air.
For even when no answer flies,
The act itself becomes a prayer.
We love because to cease is death,
Our souls are orphaned when they hide.
Each longing shapes our mortal breath,
Each silence builds the place we bide.
You were the mirror I could hold,
Reflecting mercy into view.
My hands were empty, yet consoled,
For love became the work I do.
Not all who give must then be fed,
Some sow the wheat they’ll never taste.
But kindness lingers when it’s bled,
And sanctifies what time erased.
To want, yet will the other free,
To ache, yet hope their wings ascend—
That is the quiet mastery,
The art of one who loves as friend.
For hearts grow full when not confined,
When grace transcends the claim of name.
The truest lover is resigned
To bless the loss, not curse the flame.
Each wound refines what faith began,
Each tear instructs the heart to see.
We love not just for flesh or span,
But for who we may choose to be.
So if you never spoke my name,
Still, I am grateful for the sound.
For love unspent is not in vain,
It plants its heaven in the ground.
And from that soil, ghosts bloom wide—
Petals of patience, light, and care.
Unanswered hearts may yet abide
As proof that goodness lingers there.
RSP
…
DCG


Reciprocity isn’t always as important
With a mature understanding of your emotional intelligence
The development of our communication
Our ability to find the relevance
How many of us have misunderstanding?
Expectations, , miscalculations or just wrong?
Those without sin cast the first stone
Yet knowing some people, you may still want to run and go Long
The sentiment of “taking the high road“
Should not only be a reaction to the other person‘s behavior
I would rather argue
Preemptively  strive for a high road that you can savor
As for appearance, if nature has been really, really good to you
Then the “city girls just seem to find out early how to open doors with just a smile“
But on the inside, they might be missing
A good upbringing never goes out of style
…
DCG


This poem’s speaker is someone who has been wronged in ways that feel unforgivable, yet is stalked by the command to forgive anyway. It treats forgiveness not as a soft virtue but as a kind of crucifixion of the self: to forgive is to let the wound stay open without striking back, to absorb another’s guilt without pretending it did not nearly destroy you. The poem leans into the rage, the betrayal, the urge to curse—and then drags all of that into the presence of God, where forgiveness becomes both an outrage and a bleak, terrifying freedom.
You nailed me to your need, and called it love.
I learned to bless the hammer from above.
You stripped my name and wore it like your skin.
I swallowed every slander as your sin.
You smiled while you were grinding down my trust.
I kissed the blade and coughed up holy dust.
You left me bleeding just to watch me crawl.
I called that open artery a call.
You weaponized my faith against my spine.
I drank the poison, named it sacred wine.
You hid your cruelty in a saintly mask.
I knelt and let that idol set the task.
You feasted on the doubt inside my head.
I starved myself to keep your conscience fed.
You prayed my desperation into gold.
I tithed my youth to keep your nightmares cold.
You built a cross from everything you broke.
I climbed it, just to bless you as you spoke.
You spat your fear like nails into my hands.
I opened wide and called it God’s commands.
You tore my story out, rewrote the end.
I held the torn-up pages, named you friend.
You swore that all my pain was just a test.
I tucked my trembling fury in my chest.
You said my tears were proof that I was weak.
I let them fall and turned the other cheek.
You crowned yourself the victim of my scars.
I traced your lies like constellated stars.
You nailed your darkness into my soft youth.
I dragged it to the altar as my truth.
You laughed while I went under one more time.
I called that drowning grace and not a crime.
You stood beneath my hanging, looking clean.
I saw my own reflection in the scene.
You taught me mercy meant I had to stay.
I learned that real forgiveness walks away.
You kept your hands immaculate and proud.
I took the blame and offered it to God.
You never asked for pardon, never will.
I let you go, and let the anger kill
…
DCG


Do you live on borrowed time?
Do you let life just pass you by?
Do you live in an existential bewilderment?
You’re so choked up you  can’t even cry.
We see our lives pass
Never found your purpose?
Rich or poor you barely just get by
Don’t think about what is important
The only thing left to do is die
Right before our eyes
Did you take notice?
Or did you find yourself surprised?
Do we ask the right questions?
Do we empathize?
Do we follow nonsensical thoughts? 
Do we self hypnotize?
If you have oxytocin
But no purpose in your life to guide
You will go where the wind blows
Never knowing how to escape the imposing riptide
Kierkegaard
Netzche
Heidegger
Jasper‘s
Sattre
Camus
If “God is dead“ and “we are thrown into the world“
Then “life is absurd“ – and what can you do
Sometimes the more questions we ask, the more we find the more we don’t know
If we follow the paradigm of rational thought 
Nothing more than t our pride is shown
Borrowing breath we never own,
Measuring life by the hours that fly,
Building faith out of the unknown.
Haunted by clocks that do not sleep,
Our worth unmeasured by their rust,
Our promise deeper than what we keep.
If time is a loan, then let us spend,
Not hoard each hour in trembling fear,
But burn our truth until the end,
And hold the fleeting moment near.
For even gods once learned to die,
Their heavens cracked with mortal flame,
Yet mortals learn to testify
Through loss, through love, through sacred shame.
We live as thieves of passing breath,
Yet our crime is holy, bold, divine,
For in defying death with death,
We prove that life itself will shine.
So let the borrowed moments fade,
And leave their ache upon the bone,
For meaning isn’t found — it’s made,
Carved fierce from what was never known.
…
DCG

Prologue
This poem wrestles with a deep fear many of us share but rarely voice — the sense that life is temporary, and that time isn’t ours to keep. It asks: if everything we love is fleeting, what gives our lives meaning? It challenges the reader to rise up from despair and make something sacred out of the short time we’re given. In other words, it’s about finding purpose in the face of our mortality, not by denying our limits, but by defying them.
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