The act of grieving.
It’s unlike anything I’ve
Ever had to go through.
Survived through 17 years of
Mental torture at the hands of
A mother who should have loved me;
But alcoholism had her by the throat
          ****.
That never received any justice.
Physical abuse and mental abuse
For years by a man who should have
Cherished me but instead hated me.
12 hours of labor with no medication.
No relief of the spine crushing pain.
And yet the simple act of you dying.
             Of you leaving me behind,
                           In this world without you.
Has crushed and devastated me.
     Leaving me
                          annihilated and listless.
And without

My best friend, my cheerleader, my fan, my sounding board, my dad, my confidant, my partner in crime, my moral backbone, my courage, my strength, my forever compass, my mother figure, my only family.

I don’t know how to exist here.

The act of grieving,
Has left me tired and restless.
And I’m unsure if I’ll finish the act
Or the act will finish me.
   Exit stage…..
                                                        ­        Right.

in the deepest part of hell, my demons taunt and tease, i have no weapon, nor will

it is dark, it is cold, there is no light, i have lost all hope

i have dreamt my last dream, there is no longer a reason for being, only futility

tears flow incessantly, the anguish to deep, no respite in wake or sleep, no place to hide

cruel is the moment, you realize the nightmare is when you wake, sleep is the hell with no escape

the pain is too great, an emotional causality of a soul destroyed, i am insane with pain

my safe harbor has burned, my sanctuary destroyed, i no longer have a bastion where i can feel no pain  

mother never stop loving me, i will be a good boy, a good son, your little prince, god, my lord, give her back to me, don't let her die, … please.

The worst kind of death
is the kind that eats away.
Year by year.

The kind of death
that saps strength
'til there's none left.

The kind of death that can't be cured; only treated.
By injecting radioactive chemicals
into her bloodstream.

The kind of death that she tells me,
"feels like I've been hit by a truck,"
every morning when she wakes up.

The kind of death that steals
her future and mine,
and causes even the hardest of heart to cry.

The kind of death that comes with a genetic mutation,
a survival rate of 10-15%,
and 4 years left to live.

The worst kind of death
is the kind of death that is killing my mom.
And eventually, will **** me.

“ 74th Birthday Morning,

phone ringing for wishes… unattended

cup of tea and newspaper waiting for the sip… unattended

something not right…

blood in stool,

why?

the fear…

diagnosed stage 3,

self ….silence…

family…tears…

question from mind : Life is at its evening , is night now near?

answer from will power : Life has a new day every day and evening to disappear.

months and weeks…

chemos & radiation ,

pain , irritation

exercise & running ,

will power , motivation

cheers over jeers

close competition

then…

….the long day ….surgery

preference …on two legs not the stretcher

fun over depression,

proudly walking the red carpet of the theatre

few needles in back ,

….. six hours of unconsciousness

silence…

….dark deep silence

then the flash…

a rainbow from nowhere….

in brightness …. appears son’s face ….

congratulations you have won the battle

operation success-full

the smile of his will power replies , yes I hear ”

Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.

But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
*****, nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.

The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,

the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Back on the streets, rush to the train.
So many women to choose from! One
in fishnet stockings stands out, tall
calm, still, graceful. No cell, no hair, no hurry.

Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.

A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said
is Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.

Whelp.
Once again, this ******* ****** up.
I tried to help her, but I just made everything a million times worse.

I ended up leaving her sobbing there.
How can I ever come back from that?
She probably hates me.
It's justified.
It'll take some time before I can forgive myself for being a ******* waste of space.

I recently looked at pictures of me.
*******, I'm ******* ugly as ****.
Mirrors don't bother me, it's pictures that do.
All that ******* disgusting acne.

Such a fat, pudgy face.
No discernable cheekbones.
It makes me want to take a knife and sculpt my own face.

I told myself I'd wait until after my birthday.
I don't want Christmas associated with death.
I always tell myself to wait.
Why?

Maybe I hope that by then, I'd forget all this **** inside my head.
It's never worked.
It never will work.
There's nothing, nothing will stop these thoughts.

I write these as a way to cope, but it doesn't work.
I wash my face twice every day to make myself look presentable, but it doesn't work.
My mom is taking immunotherapy for her cancer, but it won't cure her.

Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing­
Nothing.

A mole on my arm has been hurting and getting darker each passing year.
I know what it is.
I know I'll die from it one day.
I can't control that.
It's a gene mutation, after all.
I might be medicated for that in the future, but it won't work.
Nothing will.

I could tell my friends what it is.
But they'd cry.
It's best to have them happy about a different way of death than to cry over a gene mutation.

She thinks she'd be sad if I left.
Lies.
I know she hates me.
I don't know why she talks to me and pretends to be a friend to me.

Maybe it's pity.
Another "friend" already told me that I was a pity friend to them.
So, I'm not surprised if she feels the same.
It makes things easier for me.

I seem troubled here, and she talks to her friend, having fun.
It's nice.
I don't necessarily have a closest friend.

My closest friend and I are becoming distant.
It *****.
I wish I could text her more.
Which I can, but it's something about me.

I'm terrible at maintaining only online friendships.
That's how one of my close friends and I don't talk anymore.
That was my own doing.

I sit and don't do much of anything.
I don't really draw anymore either.
It's not fun anymore.
Every time I draw, I just see the flaws.

Nothing is good enough and it never will be.
I don't know why I try.
I'm not good at anything.
I'm not good for anything.