I've gone through plenty of loss in my life.
And I promise this isn't going to be the poem you think it's going to be.
So anyways as I was saying,
I've lost quite a few people who were important to me,
and I went through the grieving process,
blah, blah, blah you know the routine.
Keep in mind these deaths were not easy deaths to deal with.
I've lost three dogs, a cat, a hamster, countless fish, an aunt, a cousin, a grandma, and a grandpa.
None of these deaths were easy to deal with,
even the animals
but I recovered fairly quickly.
I learned that they were in a better place.
But I never felt I really learned anything about life through these deaths.
They were all long coming,
the animals were old,
and so were the people.
All of the relatives had terminal illness'
so we had time to prepare ourselves.
It wasn't until I was sitting in my basement,
reading a post on Facebook that I realized how short life is.
I came upon a post about a man who I work with,
he is a manager and the head chef at the restaurant.
I read that he had been in a fatal motorcycle accident.
Out of all the people in the world,
he would not have been my pick for "next to die".
He died at a heart-breakingly young 41 years of age.
I had never been close with this man,
he was simply a chef at the restaurant,
who occasionally yelled at me,
and questioned me about my *** use,
and my tattoo.
But hearing about his death,
broke my heart even more than losing my family members did.
I thought of his children,
a 5 year old and a 1 year old,
and I found that I was much sadder than I expected to be.
His wife and children had seen him a day prior,
and then the next thing they know,
he was just gone.
No goodbyes,
no last words.
Now I'm not writing this to make anyone sad.
I'm writing this for myself,
and others who needed help to realize
how beautiful,
and breathtaking this life actually is.
His death has helped me realize that.
I may not love myself everyday,
but I love everyday, that I am blessed enough to open my eyes.
It's become a cliche to say how short life is,
but it truly is.
It's sad,
but it's also beautiful at the same time.
We get one chance,
one.
I think that's amazing.
We're given this one chance to do whatever we want,
knowing that we aren't immortal,
we will die in the end,
not knowing when the end will be,
and we still decide to keep on living.
Hoping everyday will give us something more.
One more little memory to take with us for the rest of our days.
So after I'm done writing this,
I'm going to go to sleep,
and hope that when I wake up tomorrow,
I will still realize how beautiful it is just to be breathing.
RIP Dino.

Sweet, sweet lies dropped into my ear,
Whispered slowly, so slowly, drawled out
In that voice of yours.
You swore, so heart-breakingly sure, that you'd
Never go back to her. You promised you
wouldn't and you'd be thrice ******
Before you did. I looked into your shining eyes
And I let myself believe.
You told me you wouldn't go back to her,
Her vapid smiles, how she enjoyed hurting you,
Like you enjoyed hurting me.
You said I wouldn't find you regretting that you
Left her. You said you'd rather **** yourself.

One fine day, she appeared on the doorstep
She was everything I thought she'd be-
Beautiful, graceful, deadly.
You didn't stand a chance.
She beckoned and you ran back to her,
Ready to be her pack horse again.
Something told me that I'd be seeing you again
Seeing you when you repeated it all over again.

Time is a curious thing. The old cliché.
Not in a "heavy" Marty McFly way
But how, in one moment, you can pray for it
to grind to a halt.
Perhaps as you pound the asphalt
With your dancing shoes
Gasping, through puddles of ***** and **** and *****
To make the very last Nightlink
Of a heart-breakingly beautiful night out on Dublin streets.
And then another moment be wasting it away,
On writing poems, writing *******, writing the truth,
Or standing on the edge of a very tall library building roof
With the short sharp explosion of brain matter, praying it away
As it mulches on the concrete below.
Head first, to ensure success.
To ensure that for the love of god it isn't slow.
How time must crawl for people who can't move...

Each second dripping as slowly
as the painful near of a near-perfect tap.
Or "faucet" as they call it in America.
But then again we have buildings, pieces of paper, all kinds of crap
older than their whole country so what the hell do they know?
Their policemen shoot unarmed civvies or send them to prison  
as a sort of politically correct racial genocide
(because black privilege gets such lovely jumpsuits and body bags.)
Then again, we let priests ****** children here
and think **** is less upsetting than women's rights.
Time doesn't change how consistently wrong people can be I suppose?
If anything we overcomplicate ourselves.
Just think, if I had been born five hundred years ago
I would have died of pneumonia, or something asthma-related.
Or probably gone blind? My eyesight only is getting worse
(although is that to do with my endless-stream-of-computer-screens?)
I feel like that should be worse but I can't bring myself to decide.
Time seems to ask a lot of questions although maybe that is just
because I'm trying to stretch this poem out as long as it takes
before my twenties are over
and my life is more clear and certain
And I have a steady job that I hate
and I am less of a shambles
and have gotten over the depression
and the alcohol binges alone
and the fear of the future
and the self-doubt
and the loneliness
and the sickening
feeling in the pit
of your gut
when you
realise how
slowly
time is
passing
and you want to die.
Or not. I can never concentrate long enough to care.

"I am not your knight in shining armor coming to save you. I am the black fire breathing dragon surrounding your tower. In the shadow of my large wings you're safer than anyplace else. Despise me all you want, but until I'm slain I will alway be there." -RdotInc.-
"She's painstakingly beautiful and heart breakingly sweet. An angel without wings and sin you fear to meet. Her glance can still your heart and smile make you cold. Her kiss can pierce your pride and puncture your soul. She is painstakingly beautiful, **** my eyes, their wondering will lead to useless wondering. sigh."
"Even if you break the mirror, your reflection still remains." -RdotInc.-
"If I died today, what would they say about me tomorrow? As if words matter when you're dead." -RdotInc.-
Pride is a great and terrible thing. It will be what keeps you going even if it's the same thing weighing you down.
I am merely one crow with no ****** to fly, in love with a dove and
willing to die.
busted lips and busted knuckles, torn muscles and teary eyes, cracked ribs and a broken back, shattered legs and battered knees, weary feet and a faded breath, You make me laugh, thats not enough to stop me... ever. NOW LET'S SEE YOU GRIT THOSE TEETH!!
I don't quit, and I've forgotten the meaning of giving up. I don't associate myself with quitters or those who remember how to give in. When you roll with me go hard or don't come back. I live a truth harsher than life, while you live a lie easier than death.
Even when oceans away I can still feel your heartbeat.
if i could i would, and since i can i will, impossible beware, for i am hungry to prove you wrong.
Go hard or go home, fail to prepare and prepare to fail, stand up for yourself or you'll fall for anything, lead, follow, or get out of the way.... these are only words, your actions make them matter.

I've tried to believe in you for so long,
tried to hold on -so tight-
to a faith I find heart-breakingly intangible.
And, I wonder so often if its me,
specifically,
who is numb, or if
you're just not speaking to me?
I think about you constantly,
wonder when you'll come my way
and I look for you in images of those I love,
yet only flickers remain.
I suppose its possible
they're only in my mind.
I've always wished I could see you,
wished my heart would split open
and rip to shreds
over a love I can't even imagine,
but I find,
instead,
I am alone
and no one cradles me at night.

Reaching.
Reaching out my hand
Feeling the cool worn fabric
Of the bed sheets accross from me,
Where I would steal every star in space just to have your body laying there
So that instead of finding
The crushing emptiness that already
Hangs in my ribcage,
Tightening it's chilling grip as gently as such a malevolent force can,
Instead of my finger tips encountering this as I stretch my arm out in the middle of another night I can't stop dreaming of your eyes the last time I ever saw them, I could maybe touch a trace of your existence again. I could feel the crippling weight in my chest be lifted as my grasping fingers grab hold of some piece of you. Any piece of you; your painstakingly bright smile, the light in your heart breakingly blue eyes that I still swear could power the New York skyline as long as you wanted it to, maybe the slow steady beat of your heart that I can still sometimes hear in our favorite song.
Then maybe I could breathe again.

I used to know a lemon tree
Standing alone
at the backyard of the gardens
beneath where a dear friend
flourished green plums
yearly

We got to know each other
On a moment
not so many hours left
to sunset

Maybe it was after some lunch and an afternoon nap

against such rules not even once I protest

maintaining to be happy
with whatever comes to me
Yeah
whatever comes to me
to sustain
a peace appropriate to my role
in the family

Ah yes
my friends
still were there
...
Maybe a hidden cover of a candy
maybe a play of a shadow here and there
Where at other times other creatures
would play
...
A scary probability!
to wipe away for now
but not erase ‘the’-
‘Why would they hide themselves
In the corners of darkness?’

something to still discover later

while I used the time
to play secretly in a bed
where finally sleep could nurture me
always on the same set time
of the schoolless afternoons
of another summer holiday

One day after my nap or duty
and before dinner
when I was again
free
An idea struck me :

to try to climb
these very steep
perfectly squared
brick Stairs
to see
to which unknowing worlds it would lead me

from this far beneath
I always sense their bubbly trans

and the time has arrived
now
to test
that outguessed:

a beauty that
has already been preserved

into the shine
of the green plums

that gave it an existential strength

One of the many of my recording devices
For you never know in case times
If if
I would like to watch the same
as it has shaped itself
in my heart
Again

I would look then
to the shine
on specific time
and retrieve these worlds
back to me

“Oh my dear friend your greens make me laugh again and no one can hear that
but you!”

“So I will go now to these secret worlds and No
I am not afraid
It is an important task
First
To prove I am not afraid”

“Mom is still busy
And until the time I will be back
already”

I knew
The reality of these worlds
could be
dream-breakingly different than the bubbly
Belonged to the neighbors’ gardens
where I was not really supposed to be

but yeah as said
all grown ups were busy
at that time of the day
No one could see me
And so
I could peacefully talk to the not talking ones
before they could interfere us
and before I would need to reply them politely

so I went far up
and up up
and there I met this lemon tree

It was not big
Just a little bigger then me
These bizarrely straight  leaves
are almost bluer than greens
Blue-greens
although they look green
Shaped so ordinary
like a drawing of someone
who could only make a straight line
Too ordinary to be ordinary
That’s what I saw first
And that’s why I saw it maybe

I used to draw a lemon tree
kindly blown by the blue
of the wind
My visits  matching
Towards the end of the days
was set open
Preserving a secrecy
maybe about giving her a company
A presence towards which she
always remained indifferent
Maybe about
Getting to know us or me better
By slowly understanding
why she felt so gloomy
And what feeling so
meant

She was at a place where she was not supposed to be

Not knowing
Why she would never be able to grow fully
Lonely but respectful still
To the peculiarity I assigned to her

Her indifference
diffused into
That wind
defining a gloom of the day
would remain
Between us
until this day
to make me wonder
and to make
her
A bold memory

Last night I didn't have the backbone
to turn the flat screen off.

The lump in my throat is wimpy.

Act I - Morning Regret.
I am attacked by regret for things
I can't remember.

She helped me with these states of mind
all that summer.
Then she walked out.
That part I remember.

I can't take much more of my eyes.
They're like the button eyes of a doll,
pre-drilled watch pocket spares,
back-breakingly vague and see-through.

I just finished my latest
first half of a self help book.
It promised I could be free
if I were willing to work the 19 steps.

You know the town is dead
when doll eyes go unnoticed.

Act II - Afternoon Regret.
I miss her so much, I could -
I definitely could -
I forget what.

Definition of "depression:"
That familiar, back-of-the-skull,
chock-full-of-neck-muscles all screaming :
"We've got to get out of here-
It's this town, this century, this jacket"
feeling.

That summer I needed to believe
that we were jointly crazy.
Now I can't recall what she had.

I told her about my obsession
with that stiff knot of muscle
between the shoulders of a bull.
The choice cut that the picadors go for.

She said,
"Maybe you're not as depressed as you think.
Maybe you just have bull shoulders."

Our friends called me "bull shoulders" all summer.
It was so funny!
Actually, they were her friends.

Now I watch CSI,
with such precision eyes,
wasted on all that flatness.

Act III - Family input, and take-away.

Sibling Chorus:
"We're such a loving family,
yet you didn't call Mother AGAIN.
So how's the shoulder bull thing going?"

Me:
"Bull shoulders.
And we said we weren't gonna talk about it."

Sibling Chorus:
"Ok, so did you get the book we sent:
Beat Depression in Minutes while you Sleep?"

Me:
"She PROMISED she was crazy."

Yes, indeed that is what it must all come down to. The battle of our spectacularly mediocre existence and work. The constant struggle between good and evil. Those who realise this see what it is that the universe has been wishpering to us from the very beginning that it is all we must do. It is the very force that drives it all. Like the oxygen into our lungs that gets released inot the blood stream, totally nessery for our movement and survival. But alas it has been faded. In the now in which we live it ha been tainted by scewd by a few in power, They rob us of what it is to be GOOD AND TURN US INTO parasites who must consume and own. This is evil and has cause only death and pain to the human race. The population of which so vast as if we are mini planets. We all revolve around something. We all have a meaning, a purpose, a sun which warms us and keeps of alive. Yet we all have a moon that brings darkness and beauty heart breakingly simotainously. Our loves and friends our neighbouring planets, part of our solar system. Everything, every aspect of the universe must order itself into these formations. It is law. The skeliton, the psyisics behind why such things must be leak out into everyones life everyday without a single exception. The rule is simple. Life our experience is the universe. Beautiful yet dangerously chaotic. Sallowly disorganised but like each drop of water in a river it has a path which it must flow down dispite the rapids. Those who can make the connections have only one hope to be free. That is to see things in their essence. To value all life no matter how big or small as life in a vast universe is a perious maricle and we must start by honering our own. Then understandly reaching our hands out to others.
Be good.