MARCH 2021 = LIFE / DEATH
A MISCARRIAGE LULLABY
Thinking of you intensely today
And how abruptly you cruelly went away
A dream turned into a tainted nightmare
I begged and pleaded, but you weren't spared
That moment forever haunting my heart
The emergency room where I fell apart
I didn't know how I would be able to survive
Because at that moment, a part of me took a dive
Now, a year later, I can't help but think:
What would you have been, blue or pink?
Are your eyes brown, blue, or green?
Would you have been the cutest little bean?
I will not know until the day we are reunited
Until then, part of my soul will feel divided
I wish your journey got to begin
I'll love you forever until we meet again
I LIVE IN A BLACK BOX
I live in a black box...
I and my body
the box is small and the cardboard
has a strange smell of almonds
morning visible through holes
gouged with difficulty
as if I await nothing but more waiting
for long depressing couplings
the air blows through me...
goes on and remains stuck to the box lid
changing its color to gray
in this temporary dwelling
I have no room for visitors…
barely enough oxygen for a single creature,
life in a box has its humor...
LOVE IS NOT THAT LOVE
Love is not THAT love
if it does not bring.....
the very best out of you,
gives you the pain to sting,
wells up your eyes with tears
to roll down your cheeks,
while being reminiscent of the ties
Love is not THAT love
if it does not take
you near your God
to pray for the re-union
which lingers on hold forever
Love is not THAT love
if it does not get into your nerves for life
to look for the one who taught you how to thrive
but you got separated from
and finding hard to survive
Love is not THAT love
if it does not keep
you busy in your thoughts
and gets catapulted emotions Purgated and regenerated
Love is not THAT love
if it does not uproot your inner self and
reincarnate A NEW you
full of life for the little sapling of YOU
so delicate waiting for the sunshine, A NEW life
and turns out to be a SUPER YOU
like a giant Mother-tree!
Full of bloom, birds, fruits and beauty laden
standing upright with a very deep hold of inside/ insight
Love is not THAT love
if it does not teach you the lessons of life
beyond time and dwells in you to philosophies
for the brand NEW of you,
And tells you what is wrong and what is right,
how can you be wise for the rest of your life !
I've seen flowers grow
in graveyards where skeletons
are laid to rest
So if bones
were buried inside me, can I be
Miscarriages, family secrets,
sex partners, or other trauma—
bones are whatever resonates
But the answer is, “Yes”
Eve, ‘n’ you can be made beautiful
Jesus died in human flesh
Cause you were made beautiful
You were never graveyard
But you are earth in truth
So I pray that seeds are planted
In your heart and mind or womb
That you may see how flowers grow
where death had stolen room
THE FATAL KINDNESS
You need not rise to open your door
So that death can come into your room
Or into your life, although it stopped
For Emily and will visit you.
A marvel of physics, death passes
Like cosmic rays through your plastered walls,
Your locked door and your shuttered windows.
And goes where it chooses, and it must.
Your personal version of a death
May arrive loudly, violently
On the sudden point of a knife, or
Agony of exploding heart, or
It may visit like the dew at dawn —
Moist, cold, soft smothering and silent.
You may bliss out with yogic OM or
Weep at ultimate unfairness, or
Rage your panicked need for long life, or
Make guttural sounds of the drowning.
You may strike an atheist’s bargain,
(In your mind; Death is indifferent.)
Death accommodates you in your end.
Braying while grasping a cocktail stem,
Unable to rise from your wheelchair,
Working anxiously at your keyboard,
Vivid dreaming one last time beneath
Your comforter. Death accommodates.
You need not rise. Death will come to you.
Surcease is death’s only specialty.
In the end was the word, and the word
Was with death and death was the last word.
Kassie J Runyan
She haunts me.
When I wake up,
she hides under the bed
for only a moment.
Teasing that she went away.
I blink and she’s back
tapping on my shoulder
with her manicured nail,
painted in blood red
and sharpened to a tip.
Interrupting my thoughts;
that she Is always there.
I plan a future
but she frays the corners
of my mind,
teasing me about flights
and the dangers of them all.
She reminds me of the future
that might never come
She stands with me
when I go to my doctor
and they scan my body
looking for danger.
Shrugging her thin shoulders
when I get the all clear
and she mumbles under her breath,
“maybe next year.”
She forwards me articles
about the souls
that lost their battle
with their own mental demons.
Ones that look and feel like mine.
But they made the decision
or were pushed to
and she whispers,
“that could have been you.”
She sits in the pew
of the funeral home
as I pay my respects
to the family of a woman
I barely knew,
but who left the world
after a life well lived.
And the crimson nail
as her lips pucker
and she mouths,
“that could have been you.”
She is there,
now and always.
Stepping fully out of
as I turn out the light
and lay my head on my pillow
trying to ignore her glossy glare
as I slip to sleep.
I can’t escape her.
She follows me to my dreams…
like I’m her prey
and she’s starving for a capture.
She chants and pants,
“that could have been you”
as she haunts me.
Counting down the seconds,
until she can caress me
and fold me
into her bosom.
Making me a trophy
residing on her shelf.
I toss and turn in my sleep
and whisper to her in the shadow.
Her name escapes my lips,
and is shared with the world
EMPATHY AND TRAGEDY
What is missing in our world today?
Where empathy is nonexistent,
Why do Devils come out to play?
Is it because we are so persistent?
Has tragedy killed empathy,
In a world dripping crimson and coughing death,
Has too much Death drowned sympathy,
with every struggling breath?
One for all and all for one that truth has never been,
For all the hopeless misery, that we have daily seen.
Disease and war are rampant, no matter how we strive,
Our chances get slimmer, of getting out alive.
Where do we go from here, it seems the world gives not a shit?
Our only hope is that we open eyes, so that Hope's bright flame is lit.
If we should never speak again, and the world takes its last breath,
Please join me in a requiem, for empathies torrid death.
Kathy Jo Bryant
I don't mean to be nosey,
But I brought you a posey,
Maybe we can get cozy,
Out here on the swing!
And then I might mention,
Just to get your attention,
It is my intention,
A love song to sing!
My heart is on fire,
And full of desire,
May the angelic choir,
My message convey!
Words are just much too feeble,
So Darling be agreeable,
In the future unforeseeable,
To LOVE me always!
BOB DECEIVED ME
This sorry tale is gospel truth.
One night when I stayed out quite late
I met a “man” who changed my fate
and took advantage of my youth.
I’d been out with an old schoolmate
who dragged me through the pubs in town
then left me stranded like a clown
and stumbling in a drunken state.
Confused and lost, I sought my pad
and passed a graveyard on the way,
a gloomy place of tombstones grey.
That’s where I met the scheming cad.
I’d never seen a man so tall
and handsome in a roguish way.
God moulded him from finer clay;
or so it seemed before my fall.
He whispered words that flowed like wine.
I took him for an honest guy
who wouldn’t ever tell a lie.
How could I know he was a swine?
He smiled and said, “Please call me Bob.
Say, did you ever dream to be
as healthy, fast and strong as me?”
It seemed he thought I was a slob.
Eternal life he offered me.
He swore that all he said was true
and counselled me to think it through.
Nothing that good comes for free.
I thought it was his little joke —
that Bob was making fun of me.
Perhaps he’d drunk too much Chablis
or maybe snorted lines of coke.
His eyes glowed red, and then I saw
he meant just what he’d said to me:
immortal I could choose to be.
If only I’d perceived the flaw!
Instead, I dreamed of endless time
and how I could achieve much more
if I were just as strong as Thor.
I didn’t see that Bob was slime.
I said, “You have persuaded me.
I’d love to last a billion days
and live my life a million ways.
So don’t be coy. What is your fee?”
And that is when he bit my neck
then drank my blood ‘til I dropped dead.
His fearsome fangs were dripping red;
my corpse was left a ragged wreck.
Since I was dead I didn’t see
the steps he took to bring me back.
That demon had a magic knack
and used it to awaken me.
I felt I’d died a dozen times,
each death more dreadful than the last.
My innocence he ended fast
as Bob enrolled me in his crimes.
“You must now feed if you’re to live
because you’re weakened by your death
and though you have no need of breath
my lies I doubt you can forgive.
“For I’ve not told you everything
about my life and what I do.
The trials that I will force you through
are worse than normal life would bring.
“Now every night you must drink blood;
you can’t survive on human food.
This means a change in attitude
so doubts you should nip in the bud.”
I shook my head and gaped at him.
“How could you ask me to drink blood?
I’d rather eat live worms and mud.
That diet must be why you’re slim.”
He sighed and said, “Before you run
you’ll need to know another thing:
that to avoid a fatal sting
you can’t step out into the sun.”
“I’m sorry, did I hear you right?”
I asked him in a trembling voice.
“You mean I haven’t got a choice;
I cannot walk into the light?”
“You’re now a vampire too, my child.
Your mortal life is at an end
and darkness is your only friend.
Like me, you must embrace the wild.”
And that is how I fell from grace.
My heart has grown as hard as coal
and I no longer have a soul.
Best run if you should spot my face!
wake up every morning
going to bed early and
earlier each day.
Each day passes by
one after another.
Another day has been
Unlike other days in the
pass I have lost all of my
I have someone to blame
and sometimes I now even started
locked in for days,
it's like this is a
no one can predict the ending
no one saw it arriving.
no one wants to admit fault.
no one is ever wrong.
it can't continue to go on like this
business and restaurants will
a be gone.
Mum, don’t read this, dad leave it too.
Sister you can, but grandad this isn’t for you.
I keep walking round my home,
all the time when I’m on my own,
and on the table or the kitchen top -
Nana’s phone rests, dead.
I see it in the back seat of the car,
it’s not a fresh wound,
but an unmistakable scar.
And each time I see it, grey, the case dirty.
I think about the things you said,
we’d do when I turned thirty.
The memories that are stored in there,
for no one to see again,
they’re safe in that little box,
memories as thick as dust.
So if I call Nana’s phone,
if the screen lights up,
is there a part of her somewhere,
that hasn’t been struck?
If I send,
just one more text,
a letter of thanks,
and nothing less,
will mine light up too,
with a reply from you?
Reading words you never sent,
and clutching it to my chest.
Someone hide Nana’s phone from me,
because I can’t bear the sound.
Her old ringtone makes me think:
If not her, who’s moving Nana’s phone around?
THE PRISONER OF DEATH
Amanda Jane Bayliss
Painfully, I cried goodnight
To the prisoner of death
As you took your phantom breath
My eyes blurred
From the polished cell
Tributes of flowers
As they laid you to rest.
My heart smashed
My tears ran free
From years that have
Images and words
That live on
Your life phrase lingers.
It is better to have loved
Than never loved at all.
These words are so very true
So go now
You have broken free
You will suffer with
No more pain.
Do not worry about me
I will be alright
You will see
TIME AND AGE
I did not know the grey streaks,
swelling hips and sagging breasts that
would steal my body.
I did not know the wrinkles -
lines that crease the visage
of one who was young.
I did not know the heart turned to stone -|
pebbles and rocks hurled as I travelled
the road of life.
Age arrived with little remorse
reminiscent for days young -
youth fresh like darling buds
ready to bloom.
Regret taints the ticking clock for a
life ready to leave -
ready and bitter.
Age wanders with little remorse and
I did not know its swift arrival
for burial’s carriage.
Death stops, stops and rejuvenates life -
and time says,
“I am not ready for life to end”.
LIFE-DEATH ENIGMA: WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE
Stamped in blood, death’s letter arrives
to men and women of the sapiens,
shortening their jolly-merry days
and to some, terminating their hollow-sorrow days
what’s the difference?
To some, those who believe in the bible’s Christ,
life is Christ; death is gain.
To some, those who believe in the Quran’s Allah,
death is the gateway to paradise, an exit from the cosmos
To some, those who believe in the doctrines of the east,
death is a gateway to another opportunity of perfect transcendence.
To some, those who believe-not in divinity,
death is a return to nature, the end that constitutes the END.
What’s the difference?
The thought of death,
Many a mind occupies;
more than Juliet occupies Romeo’s,
that sometimes they forget to live
and other times the begin to live
what’s the difference?
Be alive while you live,
die while you live,
die when you die.
If you were alive while you lived,
and died while you lived,
then, you will live, after you must have died when you die.
That’s the difference!
WHEN A FRIEND DIES
My friend died last week, and someone on Facebook wrote that she lost her battle,
and I almost hit delete.
There is no battle, no armor, no war,
Just a knowledge that we have really been here before.
Watching a friend fade away, knowing that will be me one day, makes things more
real, more surreal, more believable than any other day.
Death is closer, and we grieve in our own way.
After you have sat across from a friend and shared chats, coffee and cakes and
watched them slip to someone with a beating heart asking should I buy the shoes
or will I be dead before I can wear them?
It’s surreal and wrong and no cancer fighting language changes that and life for
those taking part goes on.
I am so good at hiding it,
All the pain that I feel,
I compartmentalize it all,
As if it isn’t real.
I want to speak about you badly,
But my mouth doesn’t comply,
I wish I could explain it,
But I don’t even know why...
I think about you all the time,
And what could of been,
If you hadn’t had to leave us,
When I was just thirteen...
But I hope that you are happy,
With the woman I’ve become,
Never think a day goes by,
Where I don’t miss you Mum...
Nature followed her footprints,
Planting seeds in the sand
With every forward land,
Blooming trees to the moon.
Wind would whistle between
The curls of her bronzite hair,
Setting a crown of flowers upon her head,
Hues of violets and blues.
No matter how much strength
She placed in the land,
There was only so much she could do
To brace the incoming doom.
Her eyes as forests
Would get torn down one by one,
Leaving nothing but rabbit holes
In the tracks that were left.
Generations would soon come to see,
The everlasting beauty of her earth.
In what was worth protecting.
What was left for recovering
before her last breath touched the sea.
sinking into dirt
feeling around for dead roots
remnants of a life
to rip them out
they’ve gotten in the way,
interrupting the moving on.
My hands, brain,
turning over decay of leaves
The one he sharpened
to ease his work
in his garden of marigolds, hummingbirds,
symbols of dead and life
Like in my dream of faded blue curtains
where he said goodbye,
his voice drifts of transparent West Texas steel—
You know what to do.
You’re doin’ it.
Knowing and doing,
he is here
I see my hands in dirt
dirt under nails, creases of my palms
for a moment
They are his.
A HEART OF GOLDEN THOUGHTS
Should color be the sound of light, and hold my heart in golden glow, cupped hands aglow, a beating golden heart with light spilling between laced fingers, laying bare the thoughts of infinite hues, a wealth of mind reflected in shafts of incandescent gleam, so bright as to narrow the eyes of perception, and shutter the window to the soul.
Sound heard without hearing, light seen without seeing, sensation felt without touching, it infuses flesh and mind, gifting the immortality of thought without thinking.
For all that is, all that ever will be, is the golden glow of life, of a heart suppurating and spilling over with the emotional heat of existence, irradiated with the promise of life.
So, as I return my heart into its suppository of self, as the light is quenched and internalized, as eyes yet see again, ears respond to the beat of my heart, and mind relax with the certainty of my temperance, my hands feel yet again the coarse texture of reality.
So again, is hidden my golden treasure, until time again to expose my mind to the light of a
beating, pulsing heart, to recreate this moment of experienced infinity, and to glow again with creativity of life.
A SEASON OF DEATH
I cut my teeth on grief
at an early age
Baby blues fading to black
I walked straight up to my grandfather’s coffin
and peered in
And felt death’s Cold, lifeless embrace
holding me tight
Only the void staring back at me
I have spent a lifetime
Gathering ashes & striped carnations
One after the other they fell
And I cannot help but feel it’s
Death taunting me for all those years I escaped its grasp
That I am living in a cursed skin
Drowning in survivor’s guilt
Longing for a life lost
The moon so bright
Shines into the night
Such a joyous sight
Sleep, my baby sleep
Hush, hush and do not weep.
Such a busy day
Walked along the bay.
Chatted to familiar faces
About the surrounding places.
Built up an appetite
So we stopped for a bite.
The day it ran away
And now time to lay.
Look up at the moon
You’ll be asleep so very soon.
Close your tiny eyes
Time for beddy-byes.
Dream wonderful dreams
As the moon still beams.
LET IT BE OUR DREAM
‘Let me live’, wails the child for life has just begun
Let us live peacefully or we can’t live, can we?
‘Let us die’, wails the aged for life is somber .
It is complicated to yield and yet mysterious to go,
To follow and to do our wish.
Can you live? Can they live? Can life itself go on?
Positively none can because of the destructive effect,
Impact of the cruel hands of violence.
Can they love? Could they love? Should they love?
Neither me, nor you, nor they, because
Affection and compassion has turned illusory.
‘Let us fade’, wails the earth for nothing is natural
Sorrow or joy, tears or smiles are worthless.
‘Let us unite and lead our life’, wails the youth,
For it is our time to meet our challenge.
Come, let’s live – let’s lead life, cos
Life is meant for living without delusion cos life is
A tedious journey, so, get everything
FAREWELL, MY BROTHER.
As we privates bid our final salute,
shrouding our grief as a tribute,
from near and afar, come shrill cries,
while our homeland mourns our brother's demise.
He enlisted to keep the flag flying high.
Alas, the horrors of war left him to die.
Remembering the good and bad times we shared often,
with heavy hearts, we carry his flag-draped coffin.
His family was waiting by their door.
From their eyes, rivers of tears pour.
The little angel asks, 'Mom, where's Dad?'
God, why has the world turned so bad?
The bloodstained uniform pocked with bullet holes
belongs to yet another unsung patriotic soul.
An undaunted hero gone too soon
leaves an indelible void in our platoon.
Deep within us, there is relentless pain.
We promise his sacrifice won't go in vain.
O comrade, whom we call our own,
Why have you left us all alone?
(Dedicated to the fallen heroes of war)
THE LAST HARVEST
The Last Harvest
The cows give birth
in the barn,
six slick calves crowded
together in the mild
The farmer bent and tired,
too old, he thinks,
for another season.
to breed them again.
In April he carries crop seeds
out to the fields,
filling the fallow ones
with corn and carrots,
cabbage and potatoes,
lining fresh-plowed rows
with beats and beans and lettuce,
his tractor creaking like his joints,
cracking like his bones.
As the henhouse heats
in the late May sun
the chickens chuckle and cluck,
the farmer reaching for warm eggs
with his sweaty palms,
piling them high and heavy
in the basket his mother made
when he was a boy,
sixty summers slung over his shoulder.
The sheep are sheared in June,
their wet wool mucked and musty,
bleating between the farmer’s knees
as he cuts the fleece from their feet,
each new ewe bruising his wrists,
shearing the skin from his palms.
Come July he sets his stand
by the roadside,
sells strawberries in wooden crates,
places peas in their pods in neat rows,
licking a line of raspberry juice
from his forearm,
feeling his tongue touch the old blue veins,
scrape across his burnt skin,
cracked and creased
from seasons of sun.
He runs the broom through the barn
sweeping rats from the rafters,
gathering gophers and voles in the fields
like an old barn owl,
swooping in on unsteady wings
to pluck his prey.
Then comes September,
the fields full and the farmer,
dirt deep down under his nails,
picks and plucks and reaps his crops.
Growing old with every row,
his weathered face fading
like the tall fall shadows of the barn.
But no more will he be bound to his bounty,
for when the last of the crop is culled
he will rip himself up by the roots,
snap his stem from the tree,
and at last, at last
bring his final harvest home.
LIFE AND DEATH
Why do they never meet?
Life comes first,
What type of game is that?
Holding hands with happiness and sorrow,
Death follows life of tomorrow.
So enjoy happily as happiness knocks at your door,
Nobody knows of tomorrow.
Shed tears as much as you can
Don't grumble but run away from sorrow.
If day was never ending,
Light is long,
but darkness loves life
So beware of sorrow.
Life is a struggle for existence
until death ends following life .
A LOOK OF A CHILD
A look of a child makes you smile.
Fear disappears by the breath.
Your hope is not shaped by
the nightmares of the news at 9.
It still leads you across the mists.
A look of a child will refresh your soul.
It will guide you in the dark, its strength
will follow you all the days of your life,
you will dwell in your own childhood miracles,
forever, but put the rifle down, first.
Viva Andrada O’Flynn
look not so sullen
when you see me gone
sunny skies and smiles
still dance before your eyes
earthy soil blooms into new life
spurts promises and eases strife
somber black never suited your style
glow like a rainbow does in exile
after the storm clears shake off your fears
leave yesterday’s episode
unpack your load
winds of change blow directions unknown
as a sweet soft sigh carries me home
THE LINE BETWEEN
The line between
We never talk any more
We will never talk again
And when it’s breached
Like a blade to the chest
You were there
You are not
I SEE YOU THERE
I’ve been picturing it lately
At the edge of the sea
Of my dreams
When all has been rendered useless
Except for this effortless transcendent love
I see you there.
When our broken bodies reach
The extent of their toil
And our limitless hearts have
Met their limitations for injustices
I see you there.
Your omnipresence emanates
Where it didn’t before
You’re with me
My penance in broken remnants
When I will arrive at your door in the end
I see you there.
I’ll feel your heart pulsing in the stars
Well after the world goes dark
Our love stays
I’ve been envisioning it lately
I’ve been wishing it without my own consent
I see you there.
I don’t paint pretty pictures
Nor pen science fiction
Tell me now
What happens in that final hour
In the last pages of your ever afters
-am I there?
What’s that strange feeling?
A rumbling, a sound,
I wriggle myself on the spot,
To try and turn around.
Ooo, there is was again,
A low humming purr,
Was that this person?
Could it be her?
Oh no, that feels different,
That’s lower for sure,
I wriggle around again,
To try to hear more.
The sounds are together now,
In unison they hum,
This is all new to me,
The sounds are so fun.
I think it’s who carries me,
The noise who’s called mum,
And it must be the noise ‘dad,’
That’s got to be the other one.
I like these feelings,
The sounds comfort me,
I can’t wait to get out,
Then the sounds I will see.
I don't know what it is, but I want to make it something it's not.
I want to make it complex. Wretched. Muddy.
Heartrendingly beautiful, haunting my sensibilities and an emotional sensuality
Till the point my entire world looks like a wrongly arranged jigsaw puzzle.
Where only I can see the image, it's supposed to represent.
When everyone sees only abstract insanity.
Well, everyone except you.
You would see the picture and we would discuss it over a bottle of apple juice filled in champagne bottle.
People around us would whisper and point at us, snickering behind their mouth covered hands and calling us stark raving mad.
We cancel out our imperfections and the resulting combination is nothing short of a masterpiece.
Words are stuck in my throat.
I have a sudden craving to take out my dad's old typewriter and write a tragedy. I will probably wake up in the middle of the night, take the typed story out. Then scathingly scratch out the part where the two people in love die and rewrite the story with a happy ending.
May be then, I will miss you less.
DEATH IS A CARICATURE OF LIFE
Freeing: the oceanic murmur of
a shanty. Beguiling, tongue-tied;
like the soft existence of a recluse.
A wall, tumbling. Brick after brick,
and what’s beyond water, or sustenance?
When I am buried in the quicksand,
I will be a kidney devoured by a bulging
liver, or a heart. A flipped mattress.
The color of reflection. Convulsing, a
metonym not yet pronounced. Out loud.
FOR MANY YEARS
Francisc Edmund Balogh
in that bellow the rainbow small dug hole of
from that dug hole of crowded, narrow, snakes
like convoluted small streets area,
from that dug hole of end of the world small town
which stole from us, slowly, one by one,
all the reasons for the sun to shine!
in the dug hole of tireless aiming for the wonder of luck
inside that barb-wired perimeter of everyday routines.
in the dug hole of a soul wrecking materialism
hidden under it’s shallow cover of wisdom.
in the dug hole of our fatality entrenched self image
as seen in the color-blind mirror of life.
in the dug hole of unpredictable bat flight like
sensitivity of the truth.
We lived in the dug hole of the stone heavy silence
The power of our love was so bleached!
We lived that dug hole life
without being able to turn it
into a tunnel.
the dawn released
a new morning’s light,
high up, above the town,
as if it was a white dove.
Bedridden, virus got me in the vice
Rolling dices, gambler’s luck
Able to speak, but only sounds of muck
Filling my lungs as Death mocked at my face
Gracing the serenade of my soul
Stretched out, turning on the sirens
Off in the horizon, still following me
To reap what it sown
Snow slowly falls in my mind’s wasteland
Tipping point in the minefield, deathly hell
Stuck in eternal limbo, the key’s thrown away
No way out expect my private suicide
The reaper allowed one call, I called my god
He said to hang on, so I laughed
Haunting my own death, damn it all
My serenade to live, fearless in face of death
BEREAVEMENT IN VIGNETTE
I. You lifted your head, searching
Found me with your tired eyes
for one last moment, yearning,
and, just like that,
today became the worst day of my life.
II. It’s so quiet with only one.
My heart beats half as fast.
I’m pretty sure the mornings are
the loneliest of all
When I used to hear your voice call.
III. I’d rather spend a thousand lifetimes
burning in the purgatory of solitude
than one more tissue on
pretending that I’m okay.
I just wish you were here with me today.
IV. You deserved better than me.
You deserved someone with more money,
more time, more patience, more vitality.
More of what you gave me
when you were the one in need.
V. I no longer know how to function
without your presence,
so I sleep until permanently punch-drunk
and let my body’s aches be the
only reminder left to feel something again someday.
VI. I always asked why humans deserved
four and five-score aeons
while dogs merely a decade or two,
but now I realize dogs don’t need long lives
because they actually spend theirs living it.
LIFE IS FOR LIVING
Life is for living,
You never know when it may end
So spend every minute wisely,
Do what you want to do,
Be who you want to be,
Let everyone see that you are living
As opposed to just waiting for death to come,
Just run up behind you,
It could come from anywhere,
Scare you to death,
Take away you’re last breath
Without any warning,
So don’t be boring,
Instead be soaring,
Living life to the fullest,
Being as pure as you can be
So you can live life feeling free.
MEET THE TEAM
Mel is a special needs teacher from the UK. She lives by the sea and loves nothing more than walking along the beach with a coffee from her favourite cafe. She has always loved reading and writing poetry.
Kassie is a poet and fiction author from NYC. She spends her days working in marketing and her nights writing and designing... when she isn't traveling and trying to find the next best brewery.