I will begin at my life's end,
Since, I would like to arrive faster.
Correction universe! Depart sooner.
You heard me now, at the times end,
I feel, I have experienced everything,
From then, now and after.
For a decade or more, I felt like going,
Away from life's simplicity ,
Till I got on the fast lane,
Drove myself to madness,
To the worlds end, much sooner.
Complicated and confused,
Disillusioned and petrified,
I have managed to complicate ,
The movement of time to faster.
My cosmic reality from freedom,
Got switched on to *******,
At lightspeed, in a place much darker!
Freedom from this physical self,
An escape from life is what I seek.
I know this is not the right way ,
But to end this pain, it's faster !

~blissfulnobody
(not so blissed out:)

We, birds in pain,
Put our trust in branches
Too weak to hold the weight of these dreams
This saffron grief is too fragrant
For our evergreen pine noses.
The everyday calamity
The everyman dream
Burns through the soil in our lungs,  
Memories of summer are now lost in September rain.
I am here dreaming of mending hearts
That have braved more than they can bear
But these drooping eyelids
Are stuck in endless night cycles
Of listening to the sounds of misery

i no longer wish to be exceptional. be boring. be ordinary. do not stand out. be real. be authentic. cleanse your mind and body and start over. it’s never too late to start over.

i only wish to exist, that’s all. it takes a lot of strength to exist when sorrow, disruption, and misery follow you around, swirling like a black fog that constantly engulfs you. it takes so much willpower to see through the fog that when i stumble out or gasp for breath, i realize that ordinary IS exceptional. to survive the absolute hatred of being forced to live, i only wish to exist, that’s all.

Somebody put me out of my misery,
I've been struck by a curious malady:
I can't seem to stop
writing sappy poetry!

Perhaps it's *** my muse is ineffable,
Can't help if that makes her indelible.

Now the evidence lies before your very eyes,
That she as cause and culprit should pay the price

For all of my absurd sentimentalities
Is a result of her bewitchful tendencies:

Bore a mighty wordsmith
out of a hopeless romantic.
Now this whole shebang
might drive me ballistic

As time passes
I can't seem to find a problem with that though

My muse, my lady malady:
Fine, I'll be the lunatic
Now wouldn't that be poetic??

She wrote poems about sunflowers
and about the colors of each of the different flavors in her afternoon tea.

She wrote about the foot-worn path in the concrete floor of the history museum;
About a stranger’s dog who licked her hand at the park.

And to her future child,
And to the boundlessness of love she knew but could not fathom that existed in a forever-expanding space inside her,
And about that brave and resilient seed shared by all of science and art,
the interconnectedness of all things.

In radical joyful tones,
she documented the goodnesses of her Ordinary on scraps of paper and deposited them into a small chest,
her Memory Bank.

The people pointed at the lonely beergazer
The outraged wunderkind
The housebound widower
Each lost in the past or in the future.
Ah, misery.
The father of poetry.
They would shake their heads,
A shame, they would say.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town or maybe the world,
the mother of poetry, undeterred,
sat in her garden
singing to the souls of the vegetables.