If pressed, I wouldn’t say that I’m unhappy
To leave one home for another,
But that I’m living in the future
And thusly have no control over my surroundings,
For they do not–might not ever–exist, and the I today and the I of June
Are distant relatives.

So, if further proposed the question
Of whether or not I grieve,
I’d reply that this town is like a loved one
Who I shall only visit on leap years,
And decisions are as deaths.
When I go, I’ll leave a piece behind forever.

If asked, I might not disclose
That the fresh wound of impatient joy harbors a quiet fear
Of disappearing into Ventnor City
From the hearts of those who are still in mine.

Yet, should one wonder
If I might reconsider,
I’d reply that decisions are as new lives.
When I arrive, I’ll weep with uncertainty.
I’ll meet the I of June on the shoreline.
I’ll feel the boardwalk under my feet and realize, with a start,
I’m home.

Death is a beautiful thing.
It brings an end to all living things
And brings darkness into a world of light

It can bring people together, comforted in their grief.
Others, forever torn by the sorrow they now carry.

Each star in the sky reflects light from their crumbling core,
Falling apart from the inside out.
Yet we still find beauty in each fragile twinkle.
Perceptions change, so do we.

When we die, the earth consumes our very soul.
One with the soil that nourished us for so long.
Trees wildflowers spring from the bones,
reflecting the joy we once brought
In this way, we return what was borrowed.
Give thanks for the life we live.
Nature, though brutal, is famed for its extravagant beauty.
Why is our own mortality not viewed the same?

When I am gone, do not mourn me.
I am in the birds that sing,
The grass that grows,
The silence before dawn.
I am everything that was, and everything that will be.


Death is a beautiful thing.
The final question, the last journey.
An ending no living creature can escape

What if paradise is bristling with jungle and water?
Flat planes or marsh?
What if paradise is a endless city of palaces and wealth?
What if paradise is nothing at all and we cease to exist?

If you look closely, you can see the fire behind the eyes.
A slow smoulder or a blaze of light.
Is this is the soul, that is often spoken of in the world of religion?
Or rather, the raging life force that keeps our complex bodies
moving forward?

Watching that candle burn down to nothing,
Shrink to barely a dew drop of warmth,
is like watching the ocean draining.
Impossible, but very obviously happening, right before your eyes.
And when it’s gone, all you can ask, is why?
Why me? Why them?

Take a minute and ask yourself this.
Why is that strong fire within so soon forgotten once it’s spent?
Each and every happy memory..tainted.
Nothing left of the one you’ve lost but an image.
A frail hunched body.
Sunken in eyes, pale skin.
Look closer.
You may recognize the loved one you once laughed with.

A day may come when all those you have loved are gone,
And the quiet spots in life feel all the more lonely.
Cultivate your mother's favorite flowers,
Plant a bush over your pet’s favorite spot.
If you truly hold something in your heart,
It will always be there,
Kept safe until it is time to go.

Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Everyday a soul is lost

Souls of love
Souls of lust
Souls on endearment
Souls of trust

Souls full of knowledge
Leave people like us
With questions unanswered
And feelings unmastered

The void of their absence
Still lingers with longing
Tear drops of silence
will forever keep falling.

August feels like a joke
Like a text you can't write
A call to your mom
Like rot in your stomach
It's that burning in your throat
In the bathroom on your hands and knees
Like lighter fluid on your clothes

Conversations with your head underwater
Like nothings sharp
Friends just out of reach
Laying right around the corner
Like they're playing hide and seek
Like they'll come out from their rooms
Like you just have to wait
Just a little bit longer
Like they didn't lose their son,
Like they didn't lose their daughter

You could pull the wheel and tip
Closing your eyes on the highway
In silence for the whole ride home
Like coming down from a bad trip
Like staying up for 48 hours
It's planning your escape
It's hoping you get hit

It feels like crying so hard you laugh
Like waiting all night to sleep
A timer ticking
Like you're a bomb
Like catching glimpses in stranger they'll never meet

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.

Some seize on death,
Just as they seized on a siblings' toy,
They want it for themselves.
No one else should possess it;
It must be about them
And the validating sympathy that it elicits.
    
But, ultimately, which is sadder?
The death itself?
Or...
The looting of grief?