here I sit
things to do
that should be done
yet here I sit

here I sit
books unread
shelves undusted
yet here I sit

here I sit
things to write
remain unwrit
yet here I sit

'cause this ain't it

from dreams
to nightmares

flight to plummet

mania to collapse

flame to meltdown

zenith to zero

in 60 seconds flat

If I could love
the limping
ugly
afraid
part of me
That I drag through the mud
and thorns

If I could let
the transparent
clawing
screaming
silhouette speak
Instead of kicking it
into the basement

If I could put
my deepest human essence
onto paper
for everyone to see

Then.
Then, I could be free.

I'm dying, my friends,
but it's okay.
I'm only dying slowly.

I don't have a diagnosed illness, like you'd think,
unless you can count 'life,'
but I think some would call that thought 'blasphemous.'

I can feel the approach of the end,
stalking me on soft feet. A mere breath,
coaxing me towards the deepest sleep.

I've made my bed, so no worries, I'll lie in it.
I've fluffed the down pillows and starched the sheets,
I won't have to be afraid of dreams this time around.

I have a sense it won't be old age that does me in,
but I mightn't die young, either,
not that it really matters.

I'll take my time in this world,
but once the sand's at the bottom of the glass,
I won't look back.

Do I flirt with death? Oh yes.
I've brushed hands with him a few times.
I don't think he minds that much.

I'm dying, my friends, but it's okay.

I'm only dying slowly.

h.f.m.

no care, no stress
no traffic sounds
relaxing in or out
bliss that knows no bounds

building castles
flying kites
seagulls' call
in playful flights

in hammock lazing
palm tree's pleasant shade
reading, writing
sipping lemonade

whispering breezes
softening light
ocean's rhythm
lulling sleep at night

waking to the sky
pink and tangerine
strolling in the sand
beside the water's sheen

no care, no stress
no traffic sounds
relaxing in or out
bliss that has no bounds

its sweet fragrance imprinted
on olfactory nerve
bloom pressed in a book
essence is thus preserved

its delicate hues
painted in one's thoughts,
petals counted in loves me,
loves me nots

its hips used to make a tea
florets turned into potpourri

if it seems too brown or dry
give it another try

don't do anything rash
don't throw it in the trash

keep smiling and do not weep
put it on the compost heap

doesn't have to be its final ovation
you may get a (re-in)carnation