Most days
all we can do
is try,
try without motive
without reason
but with trust
in ourselves
that tomorrow
is another day
to try.
Home » Posts tagged 'death' (Page 25)
Tag Archives: death
Something Mama chose not to say
Life is like
a box of chocolates
and then
you die.
Life awake.
Dream,
nobody is stopping
you
from dreaming,
just
remember
who
to blame
when
the dream dies
and
life
goes on,
like it always does.
This is me trying to be o.k.
I am trying to be o.k.
Thinking about young souls who’ve past.
Contemplating Cancer’s reasons.
Sometimes hearts just stop.
This is me, trying to be o.k.
Not that young anymore.
Grey hair no longer a curse,
but more of a blessing – there is beauty in age.
For now, I am o.k.
As for tomorrow, history
seems to shrug it’s shoulders
leaving me out of the loop.
And I’m o.k. with that.
This is me trying to be o.k.
Yesterdays sadness today.
The day
is cold
and rainy,
the walls
smell
of paint,
a hint
of death
lingers,
my pockets
are
running dry,
control
is
a state of mind,
right now
I’m
out of it,
I bought
flowers
to liven up the room,
they
help
some,
today is
a soggy
mess,
as for
tomorrow
we will see.
The point
is,
that we will see tomorrow.
The words I’d say to an unborn son.
If you’re not ready to let go,
then don’t.
Hold on as long as you need,
and then some.
These are words I’d say,
to an unborn son.
If it seems repetitive,
that’s good.
If it hurts in a hundred different ways,
it’s supposed to.
If you don’t want to smile,
let them see you frown.
These are the words,
I’d say.
Does it get easier,
at times.
Should you forget,
never.
Is it your fault,
no.
The words I’d say are these.
Life will kick your ass.
Love will break your heart.
Death will drug your senses.
With the strength of a mother’s love,
I would say.
You are your father’s child,
but make no mistake,
you are not your father.
In your passing: for Alvaro
Listening to Rob Zombie.
You dug his artistry.
I bob my head compulsively.
Go figure.
And in this moment, I’m reminded.
Of your grace.
Some people have it,
you had it.
Though I never told you, it was clear
you had no intention of being graceful.
It’s just something we’re born with.
No matter the number of tattoo
that cover our skin.
No matter the loony stories
we tell ourselves to get by.
It’s sort of an unspoken connection.
And when you smiled you meant it.
When you frowned, it was for just reason.
In retrospect, our time knowing one another
was shorter than most.
And after College, we only spoke via
likes and shares.
But nonetheless, your spirit breathes on.
Like the orchestral breakdown in, The Man Who Laughs.
You did and still do inspire me.
I see this now.
So in my thanks, I know you’d just laugh
and say,
“Ah Dave! I love you, you crazy bastard!”
A brief look at mortality in the form of a side stitch.
An
intense
stabbing
pain,
reminding
me
how
lucky
I am
to
be
so lucky,
and
how
very
little
I’ve
done
with
this luck,
reminding
me
to
breathe
and
encouraged
by
the pain,
that
will
one day
subside
to be
someone’s
lucky
day.
Paul Edgar Neilson Institute of Science.
Putting himself out there always felt false.
Like a needy child begging for attention.
So he didn’t.
In fact, he never did.
But all his paperwork he filed neatly and took comfort.
Then at an old, dignified, age he died.
POOF!
Like a flash in a pan.
And having no children or siblings,
and parent’s long since deceased,
his work was collected, studied, and praised.
Subsequently, a non-profit was established in his honor.
It was known as the
Paul Edgar Neilson Institute of Science.
Two weeks later Donald Trump was elected president.
Rallies were held in resistance.
The subway fare increased by a quarter.
And somewhere in Ohio, a child was born.
Oddly enough, when developed research
from the Institute was reported, twice,
sometimes three times a day, news networks
always chose the Institute’s name in full,
rather than the acronym.
While reporting rape allegations against Bill Cosby,
suicides over deportation and middle school bullying,
LGBTQ night club shootings and terrorist beheadings,
reporters, like grade school kids
just couldn’t bring themselves to say it with a straight face.
Plus, having to rectify the situation, each time
assuring there was no pun intended got tiresome.
Then much later, unannounced to the public, they knocked down the Institute.
POOF!
The reason being American’s no longer needed Science.
And in it’s place, built a grand hotel decorated in gold –
another Trump Tower.
That Kurt Cobain.
He had his finger on the pulse of a generation.
And another on the trigger of a shotgun.
Depending on who you believe,
a conspiracy theory won’t bring back the dead.
A corpse doesn’t lie, it sings.
It sings all the beautiful things it couldn’t see alive.
Through sentiment.
Remembrance.
And praise.
Shedding it’s form.
It becomes an idol.
He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.
If he hadn’t wanted fame, Aberdeen would have gladly laid his grave.
And if not for boredom, then how could one know joy?
He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.
A sly dog, indeed.
Words Of An Average White Male 