When We Imagine Death

Oh we fantasize,

the quiet, the sleep, the no longer

active duty

of being on the same page

 

When we imagine,

we often paint a pretty picture

because in our mind

anything is better than this,

we have forgotten everything.

 

When we allow ourselves

to go into the murky waters of

self-destruction,

we purposely ignore

the beauty around us.

 

I wonder why it is

that when I would rather be

asleep,

i do forget the beautiful faces

surround me every day

 

I suppose it is because

they are beautiful aren’t they

and yet,

their soul, their heart,

that passionate embrace

 

That piece of their lives

is meant for someone else,

and mine,

my mystique my muse my lover

is beyond my reach

 

So then I believe

that is what it is

the final response

to knowing we cannot achieve

the peace we know,

 

So instead we imagine death,

for in its absolute,

we can now begin to relax

stop trying to reach …

There Is A Beautiful Moon Tonight

 

I’ve been looking all night,

the way the sky turns

a crystal clear arctic landscape,

a frozen anatomy of

our coldest time of year,

when one could walk naked into the element

and a soft smothering of hypothermia

might bring on a quiet

a slow departure falling into fantasy

the womb of mother nature

in safe and cradled arms

underneath the blue moon,

but time is of the essence

for the rage of night fall will bring upon us all

the wolf blood moon,

and that symbolic rage

would certain find our

lonely wander.

 


~ finding my way, a personal journey ~

Wondering The Hemingway

The first time I read he died,

I thought it a plot line.

I wondered how could a prolific artist

make such a morbid decision.

I thought, characters, roles

in the book please

-real life, fantasy-

 

the strain of alcoholism is real,

as is,

the dangerous notion of

escape,

I am living proof.

He reached a level of proof he close to not deny.

I have walked through life with suicidal notions

the majority

of my life.

 

Most often the reasons are very real

mistakes I have made

a reputation of not meeting a standard

the simple notion of

exhaustion.

 

we all have a job to do

we all have a job to do

 

yet today I am worthless,

barely able to complete a sentence

and yet here I am

speaking to this society

– we are all warriors –

some lost in our own fear,

others drawn upon the beauty

inspiration provides a healthy life.

 

I don’t feel healthy today.

Someone told me recently I have

touched so many lives.

What happens that day they wake and reslize

I was trying to convince myself

more attempting to guide them,

and I realized, I lost.

 

what happens then!

How Many Poets Have Died?

Have you ever wondered,

was it really a …

did the traffic suddenly change

was the fall

timed in such a way

that every factor

mattered,

that all the t’s were crossed.

 

Because isn’t that what we’re left with …

figuring out why

understanding there is  a reason

and this was meant to

help to

clarify.

 

Or is just jealousy,

she figured it out first.

I think her name was

Laura Aschenbrenner,

somehow it stays with me,

the clothing line in her back yard,

with he lifeless body hanging,

waiting,

wanting nothing more,

having decided this would be the answer

to everything she could possibly

ever wish for in the

rest of her life,

the last ten minutes before

she could breathe no more.

 

I’m sitting here writing about

killing myself,

I’m already the hero,

the delusional martyr,

the one that calls himself

morose,

but without the attraction

of the gorgeous girl down the street

who seemed to be the only one whom understood,

the only one who cared,

the only remaining factor

keeping this writer alive.

 

But who really gives a shit,

the gravedigger,

thankful for the job,

the composer who wrote their music

years ago with a completely different

outcome in mind.

Who is the winner, when there will be so much lost.

 

On who?

 

Is This Scary or Poetry

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I would like to off myself,

be a folk hero,

you know

that person they talk about

around the festive holiday,

old gramps ignores the dialogue,

‘tell me about his brother’

they would say,

and dad would then purse his lips

and speak of some seedy hotel in Florida,

he never named the city,

because then that would make the city

more real and attainable

then an entire state

filled with city hotels,

seedy ones you know.

 

They found him,

dead on the mattress,

no romantic ending

just a couple of bottles or rye

no note

no pajamas

the bedding hadn’t even been turned

his body spread eagled,

one bottle laying in the corner

the other looked methodically

dropped out of his passed out hand.

 

I suppose the coroner

would have looked him in the eye

and said something like

“i’never seen a more peaceful looking corpse”

he’d found his end,

the battle won

a seedy hotel in Florida,

wearing khaki’s and a white t-shirt

not exactly dressed for the beach.

 

of course this was locked inside the mainland,

the ocean miles away, would have just made waves.