Some people think
So much about dying
They forget in their lives
They are living

Some people live
So much for their lives
They forget, in time,
They’re going to die.

Some people end the lives of others,
Symbolically or literally
Some, the former initially,
And the latter not much after.

Some people decide to end the lives
Of their flesh, blood, the essence of themselves...
Some say that is the only sin
An all-loving God could never forgive.

Some die before they live.
Some half-way through existence
Most live before they die
But some die to live again, they try

Some die as children, untouched by shame or corruption
Some die with children, hearts swollen with the love their lives taught them
Some pass in their sleep, life with only regrets
Or not a trace of them at all

I suppose I cannot say.
But,
Answer this, if I may ask
When the time comes,

In your place to bask,
When you are about to die
Can you be sure that, once,
You had truly been alive?

All the poems about anxiety--
Never had I understood them until now
I'd warn my relatives and friends
I'm horribly stressed and agonizingly anxious--
And of course they'd nod and tell me
To calm down, it'd be alright
That I was overreacting
It was such a fixable plight

For years I've heard of the pain
Being alone, in an ableist world
**** it up! Don't you know?
You're life's so fortunate!
Some are beaten, some are starving,
Some are trapped in their lifeless bodies
You? You sit there, like a child,
Clasping your arms
Until red, raw bruises surface
Why on earth?
You're older now! Take care of yourself!

So this is what the anxious experienced.
With this, they solemnly dealt.
So much of this I've heard about
Read and dreaded the talk
But now…
The fool I was, to never pay heed,
To never once ask if a friend is all right,
All fine,—of course not!
Still they’d ask for the sake of mine,
And never could I grant the slightest help for good return

Somedays I’ll watch people jest
Even with the severity of anxiety
Perhaps they’re coping,
But many fellows don’t manage the same
Now the public’s ignorance
Runs dry my bottle of patience
I won’t live until they know
The expense of their deplorable actions

Often in your life of days
You’ll hear them
With that speech they say—
*You are not the mistakes you’ve made; Troubles you created;
Your hope that has faded.
You’re beautiful; of that, do know.”
But here I stand, still transfixed
On the self-inflicted hurt
I couldn’t care to mend—
But why?
Needless pain, so superfluous and gratuitous,
Yet, still ceaseless, interminable—
Hopeless to change

Why are we so set on punishing ourselves
When really that defeatist inclination
Brought us pain from origination?
But who am I to say?
What have I done,
In my self-inflicted grief

Know, that if you committed the unjustifiable sin
Lost what your strong will or your whole life has brought you
Kept that one quality, so awful and deplorable
You will still be loved.

Have peace of mind,
Your cherished life has only begun

Sometimes I just want to go to a garden
And take all the flowers I can clutch in my hands
The sweet-smelling, luminous, simple and poisonous (when ingested)
Then scurry away before the gardener knows
Though I’ve taken bits and pieces of grueling work and pride—
To her or him—it’s far more than that, it’s happiness—
And a little bit borrowed from a friendly, flowery neighbor
Is hardly worth complaining about, maybe even worth a smile
And I press the gentle, fragrant ones
In the hard covers of my favorite books
They’ll last forever, I’m certain
And *** the radiantly eye-catching ones
In the places so obvious—
A mantle, pedestal—always in the corner of my eye
I’ll probably put the poisonous
Far away from any man
Hidden in the depths
Still covered yet, concealed to the end—
But the simple things in life
Are what I hold so fast to me
I squeeze the stems and sniff the petals
And know now to truly appreciate them

A conflict crippling beyond my will,
My mind, my own capacity,
Abating to the point of dread
A broken soul, now broken inanity

The words I can't resist to restate
Again and again and about
Can I have the will to keep it--
The meaning, now to saturate

I sit in my muddled state of disarray
Contemplating the worst--
Or perhaps,
Just honesty

I love my scattered, esoteric mind
I love to squirm as I think at night
Alone, I know, not just in presence
But in ethos, judgement, sense--all the rest,

Still who can help but want another
A mind to love for lonely days
Any mind vaguely the same, just wise
Who could think in ways of deep insight

Can both be given?
In my life of ungraciousness
My world of willful sorrow
My feeble ways of petty days

A weight held fast in the heart

That's what my conflict is made of.

The rumbling of the bellowing sky
Can help to greatly and subtly imply
And omen of the future's promise
Not a symbol or a sigil--
Far more powerful, only daunting
Why'd I say
The ocean's hush
Would be the first to beckon
My stored, molding fear
I've never been in hollow lonesome
For the place I know I was conceived within
But don't ever tell me these phobias don't build--
From shame, lost hope, and aging agony...

I hate people who trivialize any sadness.
If they're suffering, why should they be mocked?
You answer for me.
Don't tell me they're implying
They're suffering is greater than others
Or that they're intensifying
The flighting emotion that need not be exaggerated
Because you don't known their pain,
Get an insight to their thought,
Accept their pain into yourself--
Yes you have suffered, none can deny that
But if you don't respect the man
Comparatively weaker, or sound
How can anyone respect your position?
You are a parasite,
Lost in the host
You feed off sadness
You know it's a drought
Yet you remain cynical
So simple in your name.
Your life is filled with hollow anguish
You'll never learn in time

And in my dread
I know you are me...