If a poem were to be my last
Then from me the pen would cast
What would I write then?
What pasasages with that pen?
My wife? My life? My family?
About the world or about just me?
Would I mourn that I could write no more
And into it my soul pour?
Would I be sunny, sad or sour?
Would I take a day or just an hour?
I hope this poem won't be my last
If it is, It came too fast

Evil spirits be ******!
Listen up, because I am
rejoicing
Do your worst
I’ve already been through hell
I have made my peace
With the pain of optimism
And feel triumphant.
The cup remains half full
Yet somehow is overflowing
I’d do it all again
with joy
if you where still there at the
outcome.