If my loved ones leave me; first my father, later maybe my mother too, I must go finally towards the underground, tooth-gnashing mole depths, descending with shadow wings that can be attached; I cannot turn back and I cannot look forward confidently, hand in hand, at Someone's side. I can only leave my pitiful dusty shell in this earth. The questions of my selfish-tyrannical self-pity kick me awake at night: among brainwashed savage-root people, I can hardly meet worthy spirit followers of pop culture, if only not on the dusty shelves of libraries.

I would like to try again - if possible - to remain the person I always was, a fearful, ***-in-the-mouth eternal child, with my childish naivety I believed in many unfair promises from my neighbors, I could have received happiness bearing the petals of the Universe as a gift in my youth. I know well: from now on I will approach false witnesses with more hesitant elderly steps, suspicious of them every second, just like I do the preaching words of hypocritical prophets. The contours of meaningless sneers would still preserve the holy magic of happier memories, but what for?!

Out there, petty little kings and vultures are running, jumping, outdoing each other for the squirming prey of the scoundrels; I will have to pass before a silent line of underworld moles when my time of mortality finally ends. It would be good if my guardian angel would never forget me again; would cover me with his protective wings, cherishing me, and make me believe, with my ever-clicking mind, that living the Odyssey was a truly adventurous journey.

Hellopoetry.com is a wonderful poetry site
Hello Eliot, this is excellent: this oasis is out of sight
Let’s keep it running and excelling
Let’s do a major fundraising or something
To keep it well, inspiring, exciting and alive
You all deserve a big high five.

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We can also publish an anthology
Since there’s plenty of great poems
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Hello hellopoetry.com. Hello Eliot.

Copyright © October 2025 Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.

It could be confidentially, honestly, slowly to redeem with feelings, not just in the universe, not just for the sake of superficial coastal darmus appearances. It could be a bundee jumping from the soul depths, even as a parachute jump, and wisely climbed up to the cross -section of manipulated faces, and recognize who is reliable and who is better to neglect.

Or, with a little loser-naivine stupid pop-ups, returning from the martyrs of memories of memories of the martyrs of cell-molecules, with the righteous stimulus of the cell-molecules, whose wishes have no idea to be fooled, disgrace, to be constantly rebellious.

Only here at the near -earth zero point should not everything should be made a small object of our examination with a detailed precision on the spiral and death of the spiral and death; Because only the uncertainty distance can be the only home-breeding, alamus noise, because in times of crossing, the average person can be less and less accessible if he cannot afford his travel ticket.

The deficiency - feared - can only give a delay in exceptional cases before a fatal fracture occurs; The mere existence also became reality before the stretched. From the bottom of crowded steps, it should be up to a concrete plan, until it could be, the shallow cork plugs of the shallow cork of the tiny promises cannot be built soon. Every person, as a lonely island, makes their own existence continue to live as long as he lives. As a falling iron ball, it breaks out of the continuation of history, scattered, like many creeping, useless memories.

The latest reality In Reality, it seems as if once again total amateur actors are trying to perform completely incomprehensible group therapy screaming-frass plays, they have all taken an unfair, brainwashing pill, as if they were deliberately drug addicts and had to urinate into a cloaca cage. In the reigning fever dream, King Lear's madness seems more and more like a pathetic experiment. The precious self-censorship is not as valid here as the usual series of mutilations.

The instinct-desire of the brutal shell of the outrageous, pathetic exhibitionists is increasingly lurking; is it necessary for everyone to gallivant on the so-called casting couches?! As if everyone is their own Lebowski and paparazzi, because even the UFOs don't like - at least not - to come here, where everyone steals and robs everything and everyone. More and more, the Nothing-beings, brain-wasting idiot-ants, want to tell you what is possible and what is not possible.

Toothpick-like gold teeth in the gaping mouths of each gangster-rapper, Everyone is already getting ratings and another meaningless scalp. Coughing dogs bark sermons about the unattainable luxury dreams of well-being, which - of course - the simple average person will never be able to achieve in their stinking life, from worms to worms, the offspring of this current Jelen are stumbling around more and more empty, deceived human wrecks.

Organically embedded in the category of cheapened paradise metaphors, more and more people are becoming back-peeing stuntmen, hanging on iron cat chains, like well-trained, brainless wild testosterone gorillas, who are punched and thrashed in pop culture - not that many -, wrestling mode. Drowning in massed satire and satire. A small morbid congratulation to the producers and influencers.

I would still search for the dormant Time, to which the playfulness of a playground child is rarely connected, the reasons for the hazelnut-brown chestnut dolls with which man could play; as if processions of unarmed, fate-chased memories were walking one after another on the shelves of my mind. Existence will soon become a despondent requiem, which thought has given content to, just like the methods of hasty, mistaken escapes, the universal Lack wrapped in the shell of petty, false truths.

The quick nervousness of a neurotic can also absorb the worries and anxieties of a stripped existence at any time; that it would often be better to look evilly and laugh at the terrifying Death with its Janus-face, which greets us with the countdown of our birth. We should fight in slow motion - not only with reason and arguments - but with the facts of causal connections, so that the curses of petty problems do not consume a person.

Now we would rather intentionally lie to ourselves about our mercy, our childish naivety, But it would often be good if not only the evening harmony-silences could arrive on tiptoe - but also the instinct-desires of the Universe offering salvation, that through every cursed somersault-tumbler it is sometimes necessary to forget the lesson and the test, before only a person is singled out; he carries within himself, like two brothers, the Lack and the conscious infinity.

Before the abyss of the outcasts, one should still talk to one or two eternal friends, Not to unnecessarily pull the risk of infarction factors with broken rope nerves. From some invisible crevice, suspicious distrust snakes its way up, daily testing the trust and humanity that we thought were eternal.

In the window-sized, mini World, it seems as if the city with the smell of Nineveh is only visible in spots. As if everyone is already organically recognizable; the Apocryphal sigh has carved secret signs in the cracks of faces, as if the beginning and end have all flowed into one big puddle. Reality has long ago devoured the entire showcase of illusions and pretense, while in the epicenter of petty, nauseating exhibitionisms, it always becomes second fiddle, who wants to stay organically out of things.

Because now it seems as if the fearful eternity is cutting deeper and deeper spiral circles for itself, man can also be a freed prisoner only in the crumbs of everyday garbage heaps, and no rain-speaking Angel embraces the shipwrecked souls with his protective wings; the Executioner-Time pulverizes them with words, because the time of reckoning has come. Even escape squeezes its compromised victims into a vacuum of decades, since - in many cases - it is hardly possible to hide or flee anywhere.

This is a cruel lesson, a silent game, visions of lead ore torture the still crouched, selfish moments of the living unnoticed; sluggish memories, tamed childhood magics keep vigil waiting for further prey. Character, human humanity, falls into small pieces, just like a tower built of shaky building blocks. It would often be better to urinate into the wind, just in case the cold shower doesn't come so unexpectedly.

We deliberately suppress our whining voice left over from childhood; we don't have to face the fact that we didn't grab the starvation-wage life annuity in addition to pension insurance. Even so, there is less and less money in our accounts, and something trickles in here and there.