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If I have just one more day
I will fight forever
Give up nothing
Till the end of my days come
I will not be afraid
I will never turn my back and run
This is the path chosen for me
I may break but never be done
Courageous
I will have faith where there used to be none
I will fight for me
I will be strong
This cancer cannot bind me
Cannot beat me down
It’s shadow will not dim my light
Until I’m 6 feet in the ground
With every single heartbeat……….
I will rise up and defy all odds
My spirit burns ever bright
I will fight until forever
If I have just one more day
I was diagnosed with stomach cancer on April 10, 2025. Until the call from the doctor, I believed it was never going to be me, I thought I cannot get cancer. Little did I know cancer does not discriminate. It does not look at your race, gender and especially age. I am only 48 years old and I have cancer.. It is still sinking in, but this poem is how I feel about my diagnosis and my journey, I will fight until the bitter end. Cancer will have to take me kicking and screaming, dragging me all the way. I am resilient, I am strong, I want to live! #CANCERSUCKS
It’s been a couple of years,
and here I return.
Heart still longing to write the words afraid to show up.
Lou
Hey Lou—
so beautiful.
I love you.
The world forgets what that means sometimes,
but not me.
Not here.
Not now.
Lately, I sit back
and I wonder—
is there even such a thing
as good and evil?
Or are they just mirrors
for opinions dressed as truth?
People don’t fight for ideas anymore.
They fight because they can,
because someone else said don’t,
because silence feels like losing.
But I remember a different time—
a time of minds that opened galaxies.
Stephen Hawking dreamt in black holes,
Einstein listened for the whisper of atoms.
Our heroes once lit torches,
not screens.
They had questions bigger than their fame.
Now?
We chase faces.
Cases.
Shock over substance.
Talent’s in the back of the line,
waiting behind a viral clip.
We used to talk about evolution,
about meaning,
about everything unseen and still real.
Now we scroll.
Now we sell.
Now we perform.
It’s almost better to be bad
than to be brilliant.
At least bad gets views.
At least bad gets seen.
We move too fast.
Too fast to sit.
Too fast to feel.
Too fast to wonder.
Even to breathe feels like a distraction.
Reflection’s a luxury
this generation can't afford.
I come from a place
they used to call
the Empire State—
where people built dreams
out of steel,
sweat,
and belief.
where artists left proof—
expression etched on city walls
like the first handprints in the caves,
a visual history,
marking time,
influencing it.
I live in a country
where dreams were once possible.
Where greatness wasn’t just myth—
it was motivation.
But now the motive’s
a bank account.
And the dream?
It’s behind a paywall.
Nobody talks about the race,
the planet,
the soul.
They just talk about the numbers.
The hustle.
The next thing.
Always the next thing.
And yet—
in the silence between all that noise,
I still believe
someone out there remembers.
Maybe it's me.
Maybe it’s you.
Maybe it’s us.
Still here.
Still breathing.
Still choosing to care
I hope the words, thoughts, and life inspire a moment of interest and remind people of the human connection that is often overlooked.
My mind is still dull and dimmed with fog
From a recent string of sleepless nights,
But coffee and breakfast have done me good.
The sky bears no clouds and my vision is bright.

The itching stripes underneath my sleeves
Are fading to pink as they start to repair.
Those hours in Hell which then felt eternal
Are now a mere slash on a calendar square.

A quiet, bright jingling rings in my ears
With each steady pace into this new day,
As hung on a chain at my neck swings a pendant
Stamped with the words, "MEMENTO VIVERE."
Memento vivere is a latin phrase meaning "remember to live."
They still carry love,
from lives once lived,
walking paths with
belief in destiny.

Their love so surreal,
kissed by every wounds.

She cloaked in petals,
with a bleeding heart.

Just as tree waits
for spring to bloom,
he waits for her,
to heal.
'Love is immortal'
An eternal love between her and her past lover, waiting to entwine again.
Marya0324 15h
I'm a long line of rope
With twists, turns and knots made through life,
Just when I start to have hope,
Something comes over me, with a knife,
Taking me apart, thread by thread,
I can't see what it is, only that it hurts,
I don't know when I will be dead,
I don't know when it will be worse,
I can't feel my body, day by day,
I can't remember the last time I felt whole,
It seems so dark, I can't find my way,
A thousand cuts taking their toll
I'm falling apart, nowhere, everywhere,
Who knows how long I truly have left?
If I have to take a few risks, if I dare,
Perhaps I'll be strong when I'm laid to rest.....
A figure lurks in the shadows,
its gaze fixed on me,
expectant
hungry
lifeless.

As I walk on the narrow path
of life – unaware at first,
I feel its presence
slowing my steps with unseen weight
like stones filling my pockets underwater.
The sun dims when its near,
colours leaching from the world.
I want to run,
but the path narrows,
thins to a tightrope beneath me.

The figure waits
forever patient,
sometimes distant as mountains,
sometimes close as my own shadow.

It grabs the coattails
of my existence,
clawing its way closer
with each heartbeat,
each exhale,
each moment of forgetting.
Until I can feel
its breath
on my neck.

It whispers in the voice I know too well,
murmurs dressed as memory,
lullabies of failure,
groans of what might have been.

I do not turn,
But I know it waits.

A figure lurks in the shadows,
Still, I walk on.
I have places to go
Before it takes me.
This poem explores the quiet weight of mortality, regret, and inner resistance.
Sweet now, coldly and its freezing,
I can't explain the beginning or ending,
The inside gives me sour or sweeten
and the jaw drops of this beginning.

Wish upon a juice of this star,
as I wake up, a juice of a car,
Engine roars like a tornado
and smashes all near tomato's

My birthday cake,
anticipatedly wakes,
and all of the near-by presents
enthusiast quintessence
This little girl with her presence.
Imtiaz Ahmed Apr 17
I feel like I'm stuck in a world full of strangers.
Invisible to everyone I meet,
Visible to everyone I haven't met.
Living in a land, somewhere in between,
waiting to return.

I crave for that familiar connection.
You know it all too well,
that instantaneous, gravity defying,
tear inducing, stomach turning,
gasping for air like someone has stolen your lungs,
smile for no reason,
the fuse being lit for that
spark
of a connection.

But yet when I make myself visible,
make myself vulnerable,
lay myself open,
as if I were on the operating table,
It's still not enough.
Even ripped open, I seem to find no cable of spark,
no artery or vein of connection.

Yet I am hopeful that someone will come along,
and take up residency,
put the gloves on and pick up the scalpel,
and transplant themselves into my soul,
return me from limbo,
and give me a way out.

Perhaps then,
I won’t be
stuck in a world full of strangers.
She's gone to God's wintery,
As her skin passes as
she does heavenly,
Snow white as the known
Claiming the Everest,
Breathing past the glasses,
Sleeping before they clashes
And my eyes aren't mass,
A perfect day of Crystal glasses.

She breathed so easily,
I never tasted misery
This happened so fast,
Joy never seems to last.

Joy is not a boy but no....
ashamed of our living God.
He only did what he had to do,
create all the girls and the boys,
Scissors always cut in so deep
and the angels wail fleetingly......

Let it go,
Let her go.
Written today by Ryan Geoffrey Hayward,
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