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G Oct 10
• • •
And I wonder who's luckier —
the living hoping for his death
or the dead wishing for another breath?
• • •
When you are smiling in your dreams.
I am here crying myself to sleep.

When you are having a good laugh.
I am here practicing a smile to hide my scars.

When you are enjoying your day.
I am here wanting the memories of you to go away.

When you are having fun and getting wild.
I am here cooped up in my bed loosing my mind.

When you are there experiencing.
I am here regretting.

When you are having the time of your life.
I am laying here wanting to end mine.
if I were the Scar to your Mufasa,
then I'd re-write that whole disaster
and be th' one to go to th' hereafter,
for you, I gladly opt to be the matyr
(s)he who sheds  blood with me is my brother
This life must fail
In order to pass
Successfully on.
Zywa Jul 2019
The dancer has died,

yet we are honouring life –

it's our murderer.
Vaslav Nijinski (Kiev 1889 – 1950 London)

"Wij zullen het leven op grootse wijze behandelen" ("We will treat life in a grand way", 1950, Hans Lodeizen)

Collection "Known"
Zywa May 2019
In the beginning man created
the thought: everything, mankind
and the earth, is a miracle
with a beginning

and anything that procreates
will die, only the sun
the stars and the stones
had no end, until later

infinity was conceived, the being
of even never having begun

so the rest, actually everything
that is known, the world
will have to perish one day

and, if you dare
to think it out, also
the elusive time

will not last and already
now, nothing is left
but nullity
Collection “Being”
Lot May 2019
Hands like bodies,
rough and calloused,
smooth and soft,
freckled knuckles,
blemished palms,
with cuts and scars littered like stars,
short and stubby or long and thin,
different skins and many strings.

Despite their difference,
they share the same sins,
capable of giving gifts,
but also skilled in petty theft.

Warm and kind caresses,
bruised and ****** stresses,
a gentle yet expressive message,
fingers trail like searing fire upon wry shaking lips.
Everything has duality. Even small things.
A Luzuriaga Mar 2019
I know naught of the difference between the living and the dead. For here on Earth, though my heart is still beating, I cannot help but feel so horribly miserable. And it may be death is not the end of life, only the decay of the body and not of the soul, but I should not know in this life.  At the end of this miserable existence, we may be relieved by a euphoria. Still, at the end of a life so fruitful, we may be met with the burning pits of hell. And if I will not rot nor prosper all my miserable days would be meaningless. Every time I think I know heaven, a hell must break my spirits. And still, it is more dreadful to met by a boring bleakness that hugs my existence like a child holds their mothers. To my knowledge, I may already be dead, as no one recognizes the characteristics of death. Life to our knowledge could be our own form of hell, but it may also be the utopia. Here on this dying planet, we may live beautiful lives. On this dying planet, we will die. Our heartbeat is the ticking of a clock that will stop one day. But the clock that is the world will not stop for you my love, as it will not stop for me. Everything that is, will not be one day. The sun and the moon and all the treasures of this world will one day be nothing. All the people that are here now will not be. Everything must die, you and I dearest, we will die all the same. Time is a force older than anyone knows and it will never end. We are only here until we aren't. Our bodies end there, but where does our soul go. I know naught of the difference between the living and the dead. Because my flesh is fresh, but my mind is old. But on the inside, I feel decay. Live because there tomorrow isn't guaranteed. Live because you can. If you live for me, I'll live for you. The meaning of life, I don't think there is one really. We just do, we just live. That's all there is.
live for me darling
Logan Robertson Sep 2018
He turns the page
Of old age
For what was once the rage
Now sits in his cage
It's been a war to wage
This, life's final stage
The pressure gauge
Ticking on so outrage
Ticking by in ménage
For his book's cleavage
Untouched and derange
Year's wasted and disengaged
If only there was no leakage
Or ever such seepage
Life on his barren range
With no panacea to assuage
No wife ever, no cat, no life to engage
Nothing but red read rage
Now in his final chapter, this cage
This cage, death does he part this rampage
A life perched without marriage
For he married to himself backstage
Where his curtain veiled fruitage
In lieu of looking at the skies for dosage
He fell hostage to his hermitage
Yet this, his bottled pilgrimage
Sinking now in raging montage
He does sit beseeched in his passage
And hopes someday to bid bon voyage
With direr hopes of  turning a better page

Logan Robertson

It's been Hell for him. Life was never easy. A solo crossing,
that yearned for a duet but that was not meant to be.
Note-Wow. Read this poem over and over, like looking into a mirror, truly sad.
Kem-Ann Aug 2017
I know giving up
is never really the answer

but why does

to keep living isn't even,
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