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Blades and Band-Aids,
Concealers and Pain Relievers,
Sleeping Pills and Abandoned Trills,
Tired Eyes and a Young Sunrise,
Friends That Can Care While I Despair.
Basically.
Run
I've tried to run but he is always ahead of me.
He loves seeing me cry and beg for me mercy.
He feeds me pain and drains my happiness.
He breaks me down until I am powerless.

His name is cancer...
over death we ponder too much
or none at all
but not upon the landmark most difficult to touch

living life well.

am i living my life well?

no, money can't help achieve
nor a good career of success

you know it too well not to believe
they do any better than robbing happiness.

then is it a nice wife and a loving family
kids to hug, comfort you generously?

no, not really, they still aren't enough to ensure
fullness of life as may only briefly endure.

then what is it that makes life lived well

a good sleep to tide the night
a roof over to dwell?

doing just what you like or minding the other's wish
let your desires run wild or hold them under leash?

to me it's a mystery getting answer to which I fail
the parameters of a life, having lived thoroughly well.

but over time I've realized, deep in, its echoes ring,

living life well has a lot to do
with being contented with smallest thing.
"If the truth can't be found through love, wherever it might be, it doesn't interest me"*

incessantly still
discontinuous
I will fall without name
I will fall into the restlessness
of your thigh

I will build my home
in the gratitude
of your palms

I dreamed these words
instead of you
one night
like any night

I will let go
of counting the hours
the faces, the tears
white corollas
sudden transformations

I have seagulls in my mornings
I have words of you
and the shores of memories
there’s you crumbling in my place
passion’s hidden crimes

I shake out the night
from my hair
and you are still there
to teach me
why
Gray
Has Begun
To Mask The Sun
As It Tries to Shine Upon
A Churning Stream Of Sorrow
Which Carves Steep, Sharp
Ledges Into My
Decaying
Soul
         As
                      If
                            I
       ­                      Were
                             C
                  o
      n
s
     t
            r
                  u
                           c
                 t
         e
d
From
A
Mound
Of
Gravel-like
Clay
I just want to be known
I need to be heard
I just want people to remember my name
I'd love to make a difference
     in at least one person's life
I would like my words to resonate within
         at least one soul
I'd love for my rhymes to be the flow
    in which at least one heart beats
I need my life to mean something
I want my poetry to matter
        To anyone
          To  everyone
              To somebody
   To at least one single person
Is that really too much to ask?
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