Hey Darling,
Do you know where I set my pills?
I need some chemical help.
I know I said I love you,
but how can I love you
if I can only think of myself.

Don't blame me, my love,
it's my cells beginning to die.
Call my mother, my father, my sister, my brother.
I'm sure there's still time to cry.

Oh, it has to be this way my love.
No happy day could make this better.
My God chose no other fate.
I know it's hard to recover
from losing your mother;
I'd wish you not carry that weight

Now look at me, honey,
can you see the pain in my eyes?
Burning coals of desperation,
all part of my last aspiration
to finally lay down and die.

Please just know that I loved you,
but my dead heart will never keep you well.
So please move onto some other,
and you'll know that I suffered,
but at least I'm not burning in Hell.

hannah Dec 1

it seems as though i am dying right before my very eyes.
This unkempt body doesn’t know when to stop rotting,
and this ungodly frame is no longer gilt in sunlight,
nor gray underneath an empty moon,
it looks like a skeleton,
decayed and laid to rest beneath a hill of grieving people,
lost to the spell i cast from these highways of depleted veins,
from these rivers of tendons that don’t ripple anymore.
I cant breathe anymore,
my body has forgotten the air and how it swims,
because now it is just sinking and sinking and i refuse to open my mouth,
refuse to drown my lungs in fear the water will weigh me down and leave me there,
at the bottom of a forgotten seabed,
just drifting - a floating fragment.
But i suppose i am already gone,
too consumed by nothing more than my guilt of refusing to live.

i am sorry for these scattered words, that dont make sense to anyone but myself. Recently my health has fallen, reborn into dust. I may have cancer, In a week I have an appointment to get screened. This type of cancer has clung to past family members like mold, this type of cancer I may have, is terminal. I have feared death before, but this fear has manifested into terror. There is still so much this 19 year old body has not discovered. I have not kissed a boy since grade 6, I have not traveled or explored, I have not given enough, I have never known the feeling of true, true love, the one that grips your every bone, bruising you, making you tremble. I am so full of fear, how do I stop this shaking?

I was sitting on the edge of your hospital bed,
thinking about my mother, your daughter,
and whether the smile she was masking the pain with would falter;
when the jagged rhythm of your breath had altered

I jumped to my feet, and let my mother take my place
as we listened to gasps of breath change the pace.
The nurse said it was normal that you couldn't feel any pain
but it was the sound of your death that I was scared we'd retain

I stood in the corner watching my uncle and mother create a wall with their figures,
as if them looking away would put a hand on the trigger

After 10 minutes your breathing got quiet, so quiet we thought you were gone
Then with the whoosh of your lungs, louder than before, it was like you were saying "so long!"
The silence replaced it, I still stood in the corner and noticed that no one had moved,

As if a moment so final needed it's minute to say goodbye to the body it used.

This is a poem describing the last few minutes of my Grandmother's life. We called her 'Babs' or 'Nanny Babs'  because she was the baby of her family so it has always been her nickname. I wasn't close to her. I loved her but we never got a chance to really know each other until the end of her life so I struggled to find an honest way to write about this moment. It may seem quite distant and unemotional but I respected her greatly and wanted to portray the moment as accurately as I could.

Thank you for taking the time to read my poem for the loved Babs
Elin Roberts Nov 27

i feel as though

...

i don't know.

heartbroken is an understatement
when there is no heart left to break
no feeling you haven’t already felt
twice fold at the least

and the empty stares of fake pity
invade your mind like the cancer that so recklessly
eats away at her body
an unforgiving force, who’s only goal is total destruction.

an armageddon of bodily proportion.

of a loved human life that is
never of itself, never
a disgusting beast that breeds and multiplies
like many a disease before it

6 to 18 months they say
not enough time to say goodbye
yet too much time to think
too much time to imagine a life without her

a life that you could never imagine
let alone want to be a reality
in which your only solace is
the numbing sting of a razor

yet you know those around you will never understand
or ever begin to try
because how could they live the life you've lead
through their unknowing eyes

their mundane lives
and mundane hearts
their ignorance is bliss
an unknown solace to the pain in your heart

but whatever, i guess.
what's the point in overthinking
when your fate has already started
to walk your unchangeable path

in which you will find nothing but despair
and everlasting unhappiness
in a world that never cared
nor never understood

nor ever even tried to

my mum's dying and i don't know what to do

Did you hear it on the news?
Cancer is screwed.
They took it up to the supreme court and now my friend in the hospital bed ain't feeling blue.
His bail is a million.
Some rich Jewish dude wearing maroon is going to spare Cancer from the noose.
All the synagogues smell.
Like ember.
Everyone is saying that they're gonna go to hell.

...

Set   Fire   to   the   beach!

T h e  c r u e l  s u n  c r i e d.

While the edge of the earth

licked it's rays with the tide

his skin like a paper; it peels and curls and cracks
the heat like a vapor; it seals and swirls and traps
                     i t s e l f    i n s i d e    h i s    c e l l s                          
                                     ­    

   a virus encircles above                    
                
                                               ­       just a seaside paloma        

                 i m p r e g n a t i n g  skin                                              
          ­                                  
                              ­                      with malignant melanoma        
                                  

his doctor like a butcher; with hands he chops and stains
his pain like a structure; it stands and burns and caves
i n      o n      i t s e l f

Set   fire   to   his   cells!

The   cruel   chemo   cried

while the wicked bag of morphine

dripped drops at his side


...

© Mike Mortensen
Lorem Ipsum Nov 20

It doesn’t matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting.
it doesn’t matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped, like a man whose faith tells him:
God's hands are big enough to catch an airplane

or a world,

doesn’t matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death,
or that every breath was either hard labor or hard time,
or that I’m either always too hot or too cold
it doesn’t matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pajamas,
and he’s nine years old

His name is Louis

and I don’t have to ask what he’s got, the bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The Gameboy and feather pillow booms like, they’re trying to make him feel at home ‘cuase he’s gonna be here a while

I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
so I hold my breath
cause I’m thinking any minute now he’s gonna call me on it
I hold my breath
cuase I’m scared of a fifty seven pound boy hooked to a machine, becuase he’s been watching me, and maybe I’ve got him pegged all wrong, like

maybe he’s bionic or some shit.
so I look away.

like I just made eye contact with a gang member who’s got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he’s gonna give me my life back he minute I’ve got something to trade, I damn near pull out my pack and say


Cigarette?

but my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all about show and tell. he’s got everything from a shot gun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context like:

See, this is from a shooting range and

see, this is from a weird girl

I watch his hands curl around a cuff link and a tie tack and realize that every nick knack is a treasure and every treasure’s got a story and every time I think I can’t handle more he hits me with another story. says:

See, this is from my father. see, this is from my brother. see, this is from that weird girl. see this is from my mother. it took me two days to figure out that

that weird girl, is his sister.

took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her.

they visit every day and stay well passed visiting hours. because for them that term doesn’t apply. but when they do leave Louis and I are left alone and he says the worst part about being sick is you get all the free ice cream you ask for. and he says the worst part about that is realizing that there’s

nothing more they can do for you. he says:

Ice Cream can’t make every thing ok.

and there’s no easy way of asking and I already know what he’s gonna say, but maybe he just needs to say it so I ask him any way. Are you scared? Louis doesn’t even lower his voice when he says

Fuck yeah.


I listen to a nine year old boy say the word Fuck, like he was a thirty year old man with a nose bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he’s got a right to it and if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, I want to teach him to swear like the devil was sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad but before I can forget that Louis is nine years old he says:

please don’t tell my dad.

he asks me if I believe in angels,

and before I realize I don’t have the heart to tell him, I tell him Not lately, and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. but he doesn’t know how to, so he never does.

Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before god gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was.

He never greets me with silence. only smiles. and a patience I’ve never seen in someone who knows they’re dying. and I’m trying so hard not to remind him, I’ll be out of here in a couple of days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. and he’ll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow, I’ve been with him for five days and all I really know is Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground, almost as if he was the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say that its gravity that’s been getting us down. but the truth is

there’s not enough miracles to go around kid,

and there’s too many people petitioning god for the winning lotto ticket. and for every answered prayer there’s a cricket with arthritis, and the only reason we can’t find answers is the search party didn’t invite us, and Louis right now the crickets have arthritis

so there is no music.

no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if we bent halo’s into melodies that could keep rhythm with the way our hearts beat.
so we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying nine year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. we must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations then let our lives

echo, and grow
echo, and grow
echo, and grow

Grow distant.


grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go we don’t always get a reply. but I swear to whatever god I can find in the time I have left I’m gonna remember you kid. gonna tell your story as often as every story you told me, and every time I tell it I’ll say see,

there’s bravery in this world

there’s 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we take has to be given back, a nine year old boy taught me that.

so hold your breath. the same way you’d hold a pen when writing thank you letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold.
then let it go. as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back
let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex

the black eye will be worth it.

because what is your night worth without a story to tell, and why wield a word like worth if you’ve got nothing to sell. people drop pennies down a wishing well as if the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. but if you’ve got expectations expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of the hard work, hang in, hold on mentality, like I accept any challenge so challenge me
like

I’ve brought a knife to this gun fight, but other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit I’ve had practice.

Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found the prize inside because we never lied to ourselves, never told ourselves it would be easy or undemanding.
so we sing in our own vibration and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands on gods hands

take the time to catch you

so that even if god doesn’t, it wasn’t because we didn’t try.

I don’t often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said this is for you,

I half expected him to say

See, this is the first one I grew.

-Shane Koyczan

Shane L. Koyczan is a Canadian spoken word poet, writer, and member of the group Tons of Fun University. He is known for writing about issues like bullying, cancer, death, and eating disorders.(Wikipedia)

Preacher man, on the TV screen
Gives comforting words to the elderly
And Mrs. Robinson
Gladly gives her pocket book
Seems that jesus
Did not even have the time to call her

And the atheist, preaches reason
To all the lame, broke fools
Who can't understand them
And I sit here
Face in mug of beer
Because mom's sick
And dad's weak in the knees
Trying to save her

Can we stop?
Can we stop?
Because we are all the same
When the hammer drops
Can we stop?
Can we stop?
We all feel the hurt when that hammer drops.

Work in progress
Intellectual property of Nicholas Kurtz
14 November 2017
saranade Nov 7

I sang to you, my son, until I ran out of breath
And sang to you again as I gave you to death.
I've been stuck in house arrest
Because I've given you to death.
I declare my degree in your grief
But I sing to you...
"I-I-I have never lo-o-oved someone,
the wa-ay I love you-u-u"

A lament for your bending brain descent
With energy so pure, unsure and in the moment
With disorient movement on legs bent
Or were they wings?
It was hard to tell on the descent.

Yet, something eternal was created
At your birth and at your death
Your heart was too big for your chest
We wept together over it,
Over your death,
As there was no preparation for the separation
Your rotation of cognation
Gives formation to an ideation if...
You... You ever were
Or I... I ever was?

Disposessed words in the world we'd imagined
Obtained and ingrained love in our intestines
Our black will eventually turn to grey
The grey will one day go away
Just as blood dries and becomes sparks
It parks inside eyes to become stars
And the love we lasted long enough to receive
Becomes songs in energy I sing
From my throat
From my hand to your coat, I bathe you
I soak you with my love... a baptismal
     ... like never before and ...
As you drown under, you wonder
If you... You ever were
Or I... I ever was.

Death. Euthanasia. I had to say goodbye to my wire fix terrier.
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