Sometimes in life
I've taken all I that could get
And at other times
I've given all that I am
And then ultimately
I was empty of everything
And full of nothing
But at least I've lived
And lived hard at that

                                By Phil Roberts

They lie warm together
In the afterglow of torrid love
Her head on his chest, he says
"Sing me to sleep, my love"
So she hums and croons
A tune he does not recognize
With soothing sounding words
In a language he does not recognize
"I love you," he murmurs as his eyes close
"I know," she says smiling
And so, as he sleeps
She lies open-eyed
Imagining a future he will not recognize

                                        By Phil Roberts

it cannot be.  

be, being  an interesting conception
today it
be
a proscriptive,
a prohibitive
status,
painful be this being.

when the only adjective suitable is
utter
as in total and complete and
life's every non-random gesture slaps you into a
religious silence of no utterance
and being or is,
just intolerable,
just cannot be,

and the answer is both
for the sole question which is,
which is worse,
the silence of the pain
or the emission of the howl
the utter of being
is not merely intolerable
but is inconceivable

Pain.
It's tempting.
Hidden in hearts
That hold onto memories.
Addiction.

Healing.
It's reluctant.
The mind fails
But it always continues.
Affliction.