how fortunate

But when the time does come, the book that went so long unnoticed suddenly glares deep into your soul, chanting your name, pulling onto your chest and grasping your hand. Suddenly, the book from years ago has the answers to the questions in your heart, the wisdom to all that torments your mind, the comfort that is so desperately needed at that time.

but true agony is the inability to mourn someone already dead

their body lying on a hospital bed, a tube in every organ and every flesh

A controlled inserted breath, nutritions as fluid directly to the head

eyes lifelessly wide open or shut close

asleep, awake, tired or refreshed

you stare deep into their eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of the person that once was a blessing

but you’re met with hollow eyes, unable to see although wide awake, unable to recognize the glimmer in your eye, the tremble of your lip and the plummeting of your heart

just admit it..

they aren’t there anymore no one is there anymore

they died and left their flesh at your disposal

everyday you wake up with hope of their return until soon enough you realize….

you’re just hoping for their body to finally be gone

for their soul to escape its wretched, rottening cage and finally fly to the waiting angles wings

holding your breath, waiting for the blessing of being able to mourn.

and once that day finally arrives. when the heartbeat finally retires it’s agonizing rhyme and his soul descends to the clearing skies. once the sun rises, the grave buried and every passing being gathers around, and comes closer to you with sympathy in their touch asking for a piece of your heart, yet in return they stare shocked as all they find back are tired hollow eyes.

The Martian Chronicles, page 286

| by: Ray Bradbury

i miss the quiet and peace of mind

i miss the thoughts i allowed myself to have

i miss the breath i let myself take

and the trickling sweat passing down my neck

i miss when i could write my thoughts on paper and let them pass me by

i miss when i could sit in silence and not wince and

i miss when i used to cry

i miss when i could sit without fear of not having anything at all

god.

i walked a long path, panting at each step. Walking through gardens of roses, swaying of rivers and a vibrating sunshine to warm my redding cheeks

Are you able to see beyond the green? the life and dripping of water amidst the leaves

but the goal was set, my eyes fixed on what’s ahead

because only better can meet me in my last breath

however with each passing step,

i see the wind and sand, a pile of brown that followed a hotter silently raging sun and then rocks, built rocks with names of lovers, of sons that lay beneath

unable to arrive at a passing conclusion.

i was,

to one

an investment or commodity.

i was,

to another

an air of prophecy,

a scheming monstrosity,

a meddling atrocity

and yet i find myself to be a swaying haze of white

blowing through the wind

with an intense shiver yet slow gentle movement

contradiction.

that can only drive fear and insanity into the depth of this so called atrocity.

such a difference in pace,

in speed,

between me and my reality.

something of nightmares,

similar to those of demons and jin, death and mistakes.

oh you poor broken soul

i feel the affect of a poisonous seed being rooted onto my very essence. venomous and lethal.

the flower grows, and the poison spreads through every fiber and vein, through every leaf and petal.

2022

i saw the world flip on its axis.

where living was merely a torment

i will get over you

it’s a little pathetic i still held on to you

but how could i not when u owned a piece of my heart

a piece you will always carry

yet, i am so completely unsure if i carry a piece of yours

and more than anything, that breaks my heart the most

why cant i feel your love?

even back then,

it felt like

hiding behind endless floating whites.

afraid, to show its hurt, its torment

afraid to let the skies and ground see the sun darkening

as our song played on rewind

and i stared at the empty space

every tear was a memory i carried from you

every day is another chance to remember not having you

and maybe it was your fault, or maybe mine

but all i know is i wish you would love me enough to come back

and pretend nothing happened

and we were still friends

because alone, in my room, i see our moments

and even sleep doesn’t allow me to forget

it roars and flames

but all that is released is trinkets of ash that consume his dying frame.

why does it roar when it has no value?

what must i do with meaningless gratitude?

i give flames you never receive