I want to write till my thoughts release me.
My little friend is now gone
My tragic life must go on; despite that
His evil eyes and his cheeky smile still burn in my mind
He no longer exists but
For my memory of him
And I rejoiced
When I heard the news
Still I can recall how I sobbed
When he gave me his evil eye me for the first time
When he hurled glass and other projectiles at me when he was hungry
When he spent hours upon hours pondering the fabric of society
I hated him
For his death
I was depressed
It was like paint peeling off a wall
It was like finding a dead leprechaun at the end of a rainbow
I was expecting some sort of remorse when he left
Funny how heartbreak works
Now read this in reverse
Because sometimes all you need
Is a little change of perspective
To truly understand someone
There is art
In your heart
When I lay
My head down on your chest
There are songs in your eyes
When you hover
Pin me down
With your stare
There is a poem
On the tip
Of your tong
I taste it
When I kiss you
You are tortured
My jaded lover
I hear it
When you won't talk
I will be honest like every time or at least most of the time
I do not even know where to start or begin
I rather to say I do not know where this journey would end
The graveyard or the warm heaven’s arms
I still do not know if I want to fight and hold my weapon high
I am still wounded from some of previous fights
I am currently kneeling with my sword exhausted and tired
On my knees scarred because of battles only god knows
I’ve a feeling that I want to stand up with my sword raised up high
Turning obstacles and differences into triumphs
What a strange feeling I get when we are even a little apart
A feeling that motivates me to pick this novel fight
Not sure if I’m trying to build a one-sided bridge between hearts
A bridge with destination of nothing but a pool of fire
Everyday I wish for hints, clues or whatever helps
I just need to know that this is not just a vacation’s play, cause I'll pay
There will be no hurt feelings every journey has it own lessons
Things that need to be known in the beginning of every such journey
There will be gloomy days when
you will look back at your old self
and think about this one choice you made that
changed your life in many ways
You will think about the day you decided to leave
You left family and friends behind
hoping to find a better future on the other side
You were young and naïve
you were that quiet kid that
no one thought could ever leave
yet, on that September 6th 2013
holding hands with Fear and Hope
you boarded a plane that took you miles away
There will be gloomy days when
you will wonder why
on that day Fear didn’t pull you aside
and tell you that life
wasn’t going to be as bright on the other side
You will wonder why that quiet kid
had this strong need to leave
You will look back in sadness
and grieve the loss of those happy times you took for granted
You will be drinking the same coffee
mum used to make you on a Saturday morning
and you will be listening to those songs
dad used to play in the car on a Sunday afternoon
You will grieve what it feels like a loss
of those you have always loved
It’s on these days that you will feel alone the most
Inside your head it will be as dark as the sky
on a rainy winter afternoon
and your eyes will be as heavy as grey clouds
ready to let the rain pour down
It’s on these days that you will grieve the most
Though, they say there is always calm after a storm
and no matter how brief it can be
you will eventually find some peace
and it’s within this peace that
you will find the strength to remember that
not everything is as gloomy as it seems
It’s within this peace that
you will honour that quiet kid
who is no longer as quiet as she used to be
and it’s within this peace that
you will celebrate her new life as a fearless kid
My sea is far away
let's meet under
the one same cloud.
My blue water
is for the sun.
I sing beneath the wave.
is for the show
I am imbued
in the fragrance.
My sky is open
hugs the earth and afar
beyond the rainbow
beyond the peacock's eyes.
Catch that too!
From beneath the blue
slips out a butterfly.
it was a dark dance
of an immovable body
as she was taken by the throat,
death, causing stupendous distortions
and entrancements of lunar landscapes
she reeled pirouettes between smothering
and seeing through a miraculous inner eye
deepening her sense of nothingness
as if pickled in a jar, and suspended in
where there is no reason for anything
moveless in a veiled corridor
inhabiting an innerness, a raven fog
her panties wet with the scent of fear and sex
she fell through the earth
into the infernal arms of
his tremulous kisses
a thousand glittering eyes
she could see through
I read a quote somewhere that said,
"I don't know how many times I have survived myself, without telling anyone else."
And I felt those words shoot through every nerve in my body. I felt them so deeply.
And I wonder how many of us feel the same way.
How many nights we fought off the suicidal thoughts, the urge to cut, the urge to purge, the urge to run or to hide out, alone, too afraid to worry or bother our friends and family.
How many days and nights have we all suffered in our own darkness alone?
People like us fight a battle no one can ever fathom because it's a battle no one can see. And we don't let them.
I've fought myself and survived myself alone so many nights.
There were nights I use to lose my own battle. But some how still came out alive.
I guess that's how we keep going. Because every time we give up we come out stronger.
You fight yourself and beat yourself up for so long that eventually you become a master of surviving a war.
"I don't know how many times I've survived myself, without telling anyone else."
Tonight, I'm telling all of you.
I survived myself.
And if you're still here and you're reading this, you survived yourself too.
It's not easy but you did it.
And I'm so proud of you all.
why do i crumble
fall into pieces of
oats and sugar
in a white bowl, but
a mess on the floor
when i wake up
in an empty house
why do i wither like
under brand new and
borrowed boots atop
when i’m alone,
it is not enough
to eat breakfast
to wash my hair with
to not step out into
the busy street;
i freeze before the ice
i do not allow
the chance to warm
my own hands
i lie down, on
and wait for someone
to awaken me
the electricity runs through our veins
and past the street signs we rumble by
in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit,
the roof of the car is the noir sky above
and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces
the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips
the sound of the sky collapsing
echoes the flashes that streak the sky,
the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness
(as if god were wearing light up sketchers)
the lacy brallette that wears me
gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car
the velvet pants that ripple with the wind
drink up the nighttime rain
and the rare headlights race past us,
heading into homes and hearts
the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts
so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity
the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes
now streams down my face.
on a two way street,
we drive down the middle
unafraid in the face of direct dangers
so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers
and instead highly exhilarated
from the street signs we drive by
too fast to read the blocky lettering
the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them
the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window,
still smothering slightly.
i can still taste the smoke on your lips
and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear
and as the wind objects and inhales
unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip
the tunnel rushes towards us,
and we both hold our breaths,
as if breathing would contaminate us.
the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow
and for once, i see you for who you are
a boy too buzzed to feel
a kid who only felt "sort of"
a person who couldn't heal
and a lover who could never give love
I stand there watching you struggle for breath
Your eyes are a sinking hole of fear
Yet you smile at me with hope
Not hope to live
But hope to capture final moments
Moments which will potentially have no future
Why were you chosen to die this way? So young ?
My heart aches and energy tracks to my finger tips
I want to desperately hug you and cry with you
I want to take your pain and fear as my own
But I am your nurse, I have to smile with empathy and be your strength
But know that you have left footsteps in my heart
We live for a short period on this beautiful earth
What matters in the end ?
The door closes
Your thoughts echo through the halls, I don't want you to be alone tonight.
Nurse may be one male or female,
Service for humanity is his/her role.
Utility of man's life tested by service,
Service gives self satisfaction, peace.
Root of right is duty, a self dedication,
Right is to do do work for contribution..
Service to humanity is service to God,
Service is duty of nurses in this world.
The patients feels nurse as own sister,
Therefore we call nurse as our sister.
Education of nursing is professional,
In hospital as para medical personnel.
Florence Nightingale, a famous nurse,
Mother Teresa showed nursing force.
Like a mother serves son & daughter,
Nurse serves the patient to feel better
Nursing week highlights appreciation,
Our society realizes their contribution.
Being a professional poet pharmacist,
My honor goes for all nurses in duty.
Shot out like a cannon ball
As mother lay there in her bed
Twisted and contorted
Push down hard the nurse had said
Audience at bottom end
Were quick to save the head
What a pair of lungs cried out
Went from purple blue to red
Cleaned up cord cut and swaddled
Poor child’s hungry wants be fed
Mum and dad proud as can be
Holding babe that they have bred
heart rate, blood pressure
monitored in coronary care unit
family gathered ...
an electro encephalogram
times three ...
sadly brain dead
air supply removed
peaceful death ...
her silken, effervescent voice
the bright day and dark night
and it was a whispering alarm
and you wanted nothing
more that you could think of . . .
you only needed
for no one to be harmed
(that is what
was it not?)
was it wrong…?
of course, no! it was
not so wrong
to wish to be strong
wholesome and unhurt
so you could live and laugh
and you could lovingly learn
to hold the hands of ill others
like the nurse at centennial
that was there to heal them
of their awesome agony
she was there
she was present
with a purpose
she relieved them
as they were poor
broken and plagued
with screaming sorrows
and freakishly fresh, feverish fears
leaving all dead petals of sin
in the moody, muffled blues
leaking blood, sweat, and tears
all to lay behind
in the shadow
of her aura's
I have no accent,
We American mid-westerners speak the perfect English!
Ok maybe a little,
It’s my drawl oh’s in my Minnesohta’s!
I have adopted the Southern bent,
Ya’ll’s a handy word after all.
I don’t know how to type it,
Without two apostrophes in it.
We have so lovingly bastardized,
The Queen’s Victorian English!
My Jamacian friend talks it so fast,
I can barely get it.
I have to ask him to repeat himself,
Talking a mile a minute.
To be clear I write it down,
In my native language,
For anyone to read it,
My instructions here are clear of my swagger.
I talk a lot,
To anyone who will listen.
Sometimes my words are harsh,
To accomplish my mission.
I should talk less and listen more,
Regulate my flapping door.
I learn better when my heart and ears are open,
Not shouting out of my front door.
Someday my poems will be analyzed as the new norm,
In schoolchildren’s textbooks.
As my once-jarring and pioneering art form,
Is finally understood by history’s scholarly poetry geeks!
The “Works of G. Lars: Cliff Notes” booklet,
Will note that I was extremely intelligent,
Bookish yes, boorish – the catch, yet very handsome and attractive,
And always very modest!
Unlike Samuel Taylor Coleridge two centuries before him,
Mr. G. Lars’ poetry was not inspired by hallucination,
From opium dreams in some drug addict's pleasure dome!
But like Hemingway -- Lars did sometimes write a tad drunk from his tropical poolside home.
In the context of his time,
Lars filled some appreciative niche with his sad or carefree rhymes.
Unbound by rigid poetic convention,
His mind continually spewed brilliant but zany invention!
Like his sad hero Mr. Poe,
G. Lars’ poems never made him much money.
But some loving ones paid off very well for him you know,
When he read them to his lovely honey!
One thing’s for sure,
You can’t get those original old textbooks anymore.
He left his life’s mark here,
We just don’t know what he did it for!