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UA Apr 24
Honestly, I don't know
Some dead and numb, and some left to sew
Cold sweats in this chaotic energy flow
I don't believe I've ever been in a place so low

Does the moon depress when the sun shines its light
When the tides collide like they're all ready to fight
In a darkened world coated by our human blight
There's no fixed star or light to guide me through this hellish night

When did reality start to feel like it became a game
Losing loved ones, like money, as if they both were the same
If bad luck gave attention, guess I'd be drowning in fame
Lacking grip to my sweating, can't tell if I'm really sane

I'm not well, i'm so lost, losing to this circle of hell,
A pattern stuck onto me, maybe i'm stuck to a spell
A world of hurt doesn't shock me, it's where I usually dwell
I wish I could provide better, but i'm broken, can't you tell
People act strange around death; there are those who talk about everything but the person who died — those who talk only about the person who died — those who try their best to cheer you up — those who can't help but make you cry and then there are those who don't have to say anything — because somehow they don't have to —
Katie Parsons Feb 2018
Good morning beautiful girl
Are you ready to put me on?
Hurry now we are at the break of dawn
So wash your face
And pick up the pace
Let's finish this beauty race.

These are the words we love to hear.

Little lady, pounce in your foundation
We dont want to see any indiscretions.
Buff out your contour we dont want to look to sharp
Oh c'mon honey,  this is only the start. 
Wet your brush its time to shine
Apply that highlight so we can blind.
 Now its time to grab that golden shadow
The one that reminds you of your mama. 
As she would tell you "blend baby girl".

Finally, pick out the maroon lipstick she loved on you
We all know she wouldn't want to see you blue.
Braid your long dark locks of auburn hair
Because she is with you everywhere.
Just go look in the mirror.
You'll see her face smiling back at you.
Katie Parsons Feb 2018
The sounds of church bells and the pleas of pastors saying "do not fear for God is near" echoes in my ears as i watch my father leave his temple to walk with the almighty.
The warmth of his hands began to fade into cold, and lifeless limbs i did not recognize.
Lingering sounds of a flat line accompanied by your voice of despair to let my father go.
That was when the first few petals fell.

Your vivacious smile accompanied by your long midnight hair was buried within the garden under the dead apple tree. 
The whispers of silence were deafining to your ears as you wet your pillows with the taste of brandy on your lips and the black streaks ran down your cheeks.
The once so full flower was beginning to thin. 
My hands turned cold as yours pulled away into those of another who was not my father. 
A rose petal fell. 

Time ceases to stop or slow down except when we are feeling melancholy.
But time with you was like taking roses off of a thorny bush with your bare hands; delicate and painful.
Just like you and i.
A child was left for the elders, but little did they know, she was an old soul.
I saw the sadness projecting through your eyes as you were trampled by this concept we call life.
I attempted to be of aid to you mother, but the demons wouldn't let go.
Little did i know your demons could wither a flower.

White oleander ran through your veins as you put those little white pills into your mouth.
A rose petal fell.
Then the day came where you were flying high. The sounds of white noise and tear drops hitting my skin haunt my dreams as i learned of the rose being taken away from me.
But did you know mother?
Did you forsee the quick end to a great future?
I did not; however, i knew there was not going to be much of a story to tell if you did not stop playing with the thorns.
But like a flower, you were delicate.
I guess that is where i get it from.
With every beautiful flower comes a root.
The last rose petal fell.

All that is left is a seed and thorns.
But to make a new flower, you only need the seeds.
A rose is like a Phoenix; the flower dies, but the seeds are reborn.
You left me with a seed of your life that i can use to continue to blossom into a beautiful rose like you.
And one day, my petals too will fall and wither. 
But my flower wont be made weak with thorns, but strong with them.
The thorns i have will be my story even as my thorns watch my petals fall to the cold damp soil that is my pillow.
Every petal falling is a different ending.
Your rose died with you.
Just like my fathers died with him.
But my petals wont fall.
My petals will one day wither to only be replanted again.
Vera Sep 2017
You don't come around anymore,
but I still remember making memories
that never had a place existing anyways—

the say heaven, hell, and purgatory
don't count as long- distance
still I punch in your number,
To the buzz on the other end,
muting the television,
turn down the lights,
and put candles in the room;

I keep your existence alive by fabrication,
sewing selective memories in the lobes of my brain,
but they manifest
& my dreams--
are the seams of my sanity
being pulled out.

You're always there with a glass of lemonade.
Yet, you never knew what an inside voice was,
as you scream about how wonderful the afterlife is.

Your proposal a tempting blade,
the encouraging way
you promise
I'll see you-
meeting the artery in my neck,
or a tendon in my wrist.
You know-
I've done it more than once-
mistake my sickness, for your ghost.
I swear,
I can hear your voice,
all the time now.

I haven't felt this sick in a long time,
can't even recall the last time sleep came to
me in a quiet hush, with a wash of calmness,
asleep with the sky resembling
a blanket of
stars casted
out into the atmosphere.

A constant migraine hammered into my skull,
everyday I burst out randomly and cry
so hard until my knees quake,
my sadness does not end,
it folds me, unfolds me;
creases me, & turns me into a paper airplane-
I float.

There's no tin can tied to string,
I can't set out lawnchairs,
and await
for the Thursday,
you were supposed
to live to see-
never comes,
there's an emptiness in shuffled feet,
and hatred for that surgical green color.

Or when people utter "home"
I think of your paralysis
and the way your word's
fought for meaning, in that slurred tone:

"I'm going home"
I've never been religious
nor do I judge those who are,
but I've been spiritual my whole life-
the spirit knows when it dies.

my skin shudders to think how they carted you off;
to discover the parts of your body
you had not known were betraying you,
your lung's gave up
and soon the breaths in your chest,
had no place left in this world.

Like anyone else;
trying to justify why time rots hope, as it loosens our grip on reality.

Awaiting your chatter as
I shave my legs while,
you do your make up
in the faintly lit bathroom;
I hated that guava pink lipstick
you wore like it was your job.
I loved that mauve colored one
that made cherubs beg for you to
hold them in your maternal arms,
always having open arms for all outcasted,
it was part of your charm.

They say you always know when you're dying:
does that make an illness,
the equivalent to the
heartbreak of your body knowing
it has no regard to live any longer,
and the crisis with mortality,
that if we fend off fears and try to be stronger,
then an unbeknownst curiosity for what happens.

You know, we all know.
We are all going to die someday.

does your mind go
when you die too?
or do memories remain
as something complacent
that even death cannot
strip the soul of?
Vera Jul 2017
See you in the twilight,
every night that my eyes are closed.
Your skin glows,
hands as soft as I recall.
Hair is still the same garnet shade-
you look beautiful.

Please, don't go.

I know, it's selfish-
you give life to greenery,
and flowers grow from the ashes.

Sickness no longer ravages your body,
I want you to come back to me-
the stars don't shine the same way,
every cloud remains looking gray-
they took my sunshine away.

Breaths shouldn't run out so young,
my soul wants to speak with your’s.
Where we divide the vicinities of  Heaven and Hell,
love of mother and child lasts an infinity.

Met with blue skies above our heads,
greenest grass under our feet.
there's no race in the sands of time,
your heart still beats
& you smile.

This moment ends
and the time spent together transcends
into the unknown,
when the sun glows through my blinds--
I'm left with just the ghost of you.

Mother, I want this sorrow to leave
if you can't come back, please stay in my dreams,
your spirit gleams among the horizon.
Vera Jul 2017
Dear Death,

She was not ready. Though, born with overcast under her eyes and frosted lips. Once, lotus petals in early spring. They have now cracked and begin to wilt. There was much more to speak of; rigor mortis sets in as they begin trying to find me. As this body was a vessel- I inch away from the scalpel.
We are unrequited lovers. I weaken them while, you sweep them off their feet. They're always infatuated with the scent of your cloak. But grow resentful towards the sterile scent of hospitals. She is your mistress now. You will take her, leave me with the ashes.

And I'll hold nothing, but they blame me for what you've done. You're the thief, I'm the devil's advocate for disease. I loathe yet, love you for all your ruthlessness. Teach me how to be that powerful. They've come so close to finding me and I must fade, but we'll meet again.

The relationship between death and cancer.

— The End —