Seymour Phillip Hoffman: The World Is Crying For You

If he’d known
The world would mourn his passing,
Would he have overdosed on ******?
How much self-love does it take
To break the habit?
Would you grab it, if you could?
I think I would.
Even kids and wife
Can’t make that change in life:
The skid, the slide,
The gliding down and down
And even more…
Until you’re on the floor,
A needle in your arm,
Unconscious of your heart’s alarm
Whispering “Stop
– or else your time is up!”

SPH, you never knew
They’d mourn your passing
As they’re doing.  
That it would cry: the bylines, headlines
Sounding, bounding, ‘round the world in living print.
If you’d been more intuitive, more self in-touch, less self-indulgent,
Drugs might have been out-of
Thought and need, thought and greed, but…
Habit feeds on thought
And you were caught.  
And so,
We throw
No stones at windows,
Even if and though
We know the world will not cry at our passing.
We’ll mourn
And learn.

Seymour Phillip Hoffman: The World Is Crying For You 2.3.2014
Special People, Special Occasions; Small Stories Book; Birth, Death & In Between II;
Arlene Corwin
  



https://arlenecorwinpoetry.com/2017/02/03/seymour-phillip-hoffman-the-world-is-crying-for-you/

Waiting can be a madman clawing his own skin.
It can be drying paint, dying libido, or crying dogs
at the window watching a car roll off.
Sometimes waiting is just a phone that never buzzes.

I’m still waiting.

Hunks of meat swinging and forced screaming,
I remember, would always do the trick.
Now it sends a hollow feeling rushing to nowhere.
Now I feel like I’m watching a reality show.

SOME SCENES ARE CREATED FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT.

This programme contains product placement.

The pair of air Nikes she keeps on while bent over.
The Maurice Lacroix watch he wears while spanking her.
It is a nice watch; they are nice trainers.
She is beautiful; he is handsome.

But, I’m still waiting.

The predictable ****** comes and goes.
The conclusion’s always the same.
It never used to bother me, the farce of it all.
It used to do the trick.

But, I’m still waiting.

don't let others
write poetry about you
it'll start off with the stars in your eyes,
the strut in your walk,
the touch of your skin;

you'll read about the way you smile,
or the soft sent of rose your hair illuminates;
the way your voice flows like a sweet summer song,
or the way you never speak too little or too much.

don't let others write poetry about you
it'll start off with the stars in your eyes
but it'll always
end
in heartbreak.

Once I was zoetic,
  and words became life

But now I am dead,
—and death becomes me

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2016)

words spilled out of her mouth
quicker than her heart could beat,
they became like ink on his skin,
permanent and something
he could
never forget.