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  Sep 2018 mrmonst3r
Emily Dickinson
536

The Heart asks Pleasure—first—
And then—Excuse from Pain—
And then—those little Anodyness
That deaden suffering—

And then—to go to sleep—
And then—if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor
The privilege to die—
  Jun 2018 mrmonst3r
Robert Frost
A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing

      Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing

      Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating

      Full merrily;
   Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
   For all things must die.
      All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
      O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call'd--we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
      O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
      The old earth
      Had a birth,
      As all men know,
      Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro' eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.
Be near me when my light is low,
  When the blood creeps, and the nerves *****
  And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.

Be near me when the sensuous frame
  Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust;
  And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.

Be near me when my faith is dry,
  And men the flies of latter spring,
  That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.

Be near me when I fade away,
  To point the term of human strife,
  And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.
  Nov 2017 mrmonst3r
Emily Dickinson
1287

In this short Life
That only lasts an hour
How much—how little—is
Within our power
  Sep 2017 mrmonst3r
Charles Bukowski
the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them
mrmonst3r Jun 2017
Staring into another world.
Emptiness spilling
Over.
Vacant
Silent waves
                 of crushing isolation.
I don't want you here
With me.
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