Dear life, what is it that makes you take on a journey which always leads towards an unavoidable, devestating yet resenting death ?
Since I cannot understand it fully I wander upon this world without finding any clear answers to satisfy the curiousity my heart bears.
In the realm of dreams I find rest, as my mind engages into this illusion and frees me from this reality for as long as my body pleases.
Awakened by loitering darkness, these questions are repeating themselves on a path of recurrance, without decreasing in strengh.
As my breath dies while feeling the agony, flames of hatred are seeping through my fragile, delicate existence, giving energy.
Rumbling, boiling in sadness I tell myself that anyone's forgiveness is not neccesary, losing control over this riot of pure fury without heart.
Looking back a thousand times, it remains as my very best choice.
Letting these emotions race, rage and rampage uncontrollably
Whilst losing ones self within a lunatic laughter to release pressure
I cannot stop these tears, pitying the past long gone rolling down my cheeks, moistening the very soil I am growing on, as a pure lily
Until the moment comes in which my body exhausts itself and allows me to enter the world of dreams, where despair fades into happiness.
Until the sun rises once again

~ Umi

I have never snorted
or smoked
or stung skin
with the explicit
substances of this earth
But I have heard that when
a human being goes from
first ****** experience to
aching addiction
Their brains have been
flooded
with seratonin
to such a devestating
degree
that they can no longer
enjoy organic bliss

                                                        sc­ent
                                                        taste­
                                                        touch
  ­                                                      melody

Wha­t I want to know
Is if this is what happened to me
because of **you

the curtain rolls aside
The stage sets
The lights flicker on
Everybody is waiting.
And suddenly
it begins
The fake facade
The fake tears that cascade
This entire thing is an act
Nothing but predators in the night.
And though everyone wants to fight
Things just get too **** tight.
We want to be exposed to the light
But the play begins to take flight
And stunts are executed at devestating heights

This play
The theatre is all an act.
The metaphorical phrase for life.
And ****** at best
The masquerade of faults
The sins
The lies
Beginning to become more of a circus.
And as this blood runs red
This...act runs dark.
The curtains still pried open
Set on the openess of a prairie.
These people.
The ones who lead us on
The never ending Mirage.
Until this act is exposed
The audience shall be snatched into grievience.
The fakes strut around us.
They show the underside quickly.
The ugly scene
That proved to be the ******.
The jaw dropping ****-canned conclusion.
But imagine the actors
Exposed and afraid.
Alone without makeup and masks.
Turning until someone asks
where the ***** the director?
Abandonment from the puppeteer himself
Waiting for everyone *else to
Show themselves
For who they really are.

today i learned of a dear, dear HP friend's devestating loss of her second child. is there no boundary to the grief meted out? are we not given so much and then told, " no more...".  I would previously have said, yes of course, yet today, I can only wish this were the case.*

i choose to grieve with you
i choose to walk beside you.
we walk this journey together, you and i,
distant by earth’s miles, but not by the heart’s;
each knowing the other, less by the lines of our faces
and more through the footprints we leave on the pathway,
the pools of wisdom we leave beside it
for others to step into, enjoying its coolness,
soaking deeply in its cleansing,
allowing it to wash away the dust, the soil,
the tears of the journey.
here, now and until you need them no longer
i offer you mine.
lift the cup high, over your head and
let them run, splashing all the way to the ground…
let them wash your dusty, weary feet.

i choose to care for you.
those words spoken casually by some,
but intently from one whose compassion
becomes a torrent in seasons as this,
from one who has known the heart break of loss,
sent swiftly to you,
rushing down to a parched valley…
not in voluminous, drowning torrent,
but in rivulets of refreshing all around you;
ointment to apply to your wounds.
let this be salve to your loss-torn soul.

i choose to share with you.
graces, extended to me from others who saw the pain,
the burden, the travail of my journey,
these graces becoming mine to pass on.
words sent in comfort;
arms to wrap ‘round, hold and strengthen;
wisdom to bind up a broken heart…
grieving with you,
my tears i blend with yours
as together we weep.
please, drink these graces,
every drop of peace, hope and comfort…
let these revive your longing heart.

i choose to encourage you.
drink deeply from my well for the journey ahead.
draw from the graces of others all around you.
store it, hold it, let it revive and energize.
draw from the wisdom of the Ancient of Days,
for she lives…
she speaks to all who will hear, who will listen.
let her restore your tired mind.

all of this…
this is what i mean when i say today,
“i grieve with you”

I didn't talk to you in years
then a year later,
I'll never get to talk to you again

I remember the day
I walked into
school

and I sat down thinking
nothing about you
and a girl came walking in crying
"something devestating happened"

you, beautiful girl, tried  to stop the pain
you tied the knot
and hung out in the rain

you never thought
that your soul would be missed
and little did you know

I'm crying a year later
over your death wish

I think about you a lot
I think about your pain
I think about your name
your teeth and your future
your hobbies and character

and I think about you and me,
a relationship
you never let happen

A stolen treasure worth a penny
sacerate to the mother
devestating to be her
depressing to be in hell

A stolen treasure worrying to her
bringing anger to life
problems to the family
troubles to the parents

A stolen treasure missing
where and why
the unknown truth
oh why did it happen

oh why my daughter
a stolen treasure a mystery to me

Wringing my hands,
As I walk down the hall,
Supressing the nausea,
My nails dig deep,
Through my soft wrists,
As I reach his door,
I hold my breath,
My heart pounds dangerously,
When I see him,
Surrounded by crisp white pillows,
And blue sheets,
He looks dead,
My mind screams,
I long to rip down the walls,
He murmurs,
Indeciferable words,
His voice rusty and unused,
I'm so scared,
Almost too scared to embrace him,
I think he might break,
The adults mummble,
Attempting to conceal,
The devestating topic of conversation,
Plans, decisions,
So many to be made,
I stifle the urge to cry,
We are all so empty,
And he is dying

In a world.
Where everyone thinks information needed to be said?
Somethings need to be left unspoken.

Analyze.
Recognize the consequences of your action.
Some might be devestating if told.

If some under the belief that it is.
Then let it be.
Why cause someone hurt?
If there's no need to be.
Somethings are better left unsaid.

Whether it's an affair.
The heritage of a child.
Or something serious in this nature.
Somethings need to be unspoken.

Sure there are certain events needs to be told.
If embezzeling.
If against policies or rules of a company.
Then yes bare your soul.
Still somethings shouldn't ever be told.

We all heard the truth should set you free.
While some knows the truth will get you ****.
I'm just keeping it real.
Because reality will come after the truth has been exposed.

Who I was would attack who I am
And who I am would attack who I was
One day I hope to be someone
Who finds peace within themselves
And they can look back on their past selves
Smiling for what once was
Smiling at my growth
I just want myself to know
That regardless of my many mistakes
I'm proud of who I am
And of who I will become
I just wish for myself
To stop fighting myself
Constantly
I wish for my selves
To be at peace
To accept that they exist
Within me
I am who I am
I am who I was
I am me I always will be

And to reject that
Would be devestating

I was crazy
before I was born,
but it was genetic &
it wasn't my fault people.
Still somehow,
I was blamed.
You add the fact that
babies were having babies
& you have a ****** disaster
on your hands.

Six pounds, seven ounces of trouble
came forth after nine months of hardship & they named it me.
Go figure, giving birth
to an insane little human
with no manual given
for its manipulation.
But there was nothing
for me to fear as
they sought technical assistance
from the expert authorities.

Oh yes, help came in many forms
from the church,
the schools & the government,
all vying for control,
using their own mind games
& experimentation
to get their points across.

All were on a roll
and I rocked,
was at a loss,
hiding in the lyrics
of similar pains,
they too tainted
by their own genetics.

Love, the big "L" word,
wasn't really forthcoming either.
It was much harder to come by,
but just as devestating
when it became broken
like myself.

And it's hard to pick up
the pieces of a shattered heart
when they're scattered
everywhere.
Yet I try.

Close to this end you were a free-spirit caged
Body-bound parlyzed, muted and muzzeled, entombed
locked alive and screaming from a keyless cell.
A fleshy coffin-with-a-view, an unburied object of pity on public display.

Further from this end you were daughter, sister, friend,
wife, mother. More. You will always be so much more.

Leading up to this end you showed me a suffering so completely devestating
I can't bear to think of it. I can't bear to speak of it.

A suffering I could never endure myself.
A suffering I can't understand or imagine, and hopefully never experience.
A suffering I had been praying your release from for years.
A suffering you had been pleading your release from for years.

A suffering that thankfully you are now released from.

It is a suffering I will never forget, that you alone endured.

I had never known strength until I witnessed your strength through your suffering.

Here at this end I know real loss.

It is a loss I cannot possibly bear, but will.
Using a strength that is not mine, but yours.

I don't want to go back.

My hands cover my ears,
pressing, pleading.

Nails break on my scalp,
digging, wrenching.

Blocking out the sounds,
screaming, crashing.

My mind fills with wails,
feral, deafening.

The bathtub embraces me,
cold, empty.

I can't unfold my body,
crushed, quaking.

I can't accept this reality,
toxic, devestating.

I don't want to breathe,
To rise, turn on the light,

Open that door,
Return to someone else's madness.

I'll just... stay here.

sometimes it's not what you write you,
but most of the time:
it's about how you write about it...
   people speak of fashion every sunday
in the newspaper magazines,
people always stress the need for style...
to be frank? yes:
   you can write about the most exciting
event in world history,
  but then write it like a yawn,
checking for the psychopaths that never
manage to replicate a yawn right
after you yawned, to replicate
   a human-togetherness...
       but then you can end up writing about
the most absurdly boring events of life,
and write it, like easing out or stressing out
a ****... and everyone's laughing,
but all you managed to do is fry a really
****** omellete...
the nazis will forever be complimented on
their style, the nazis will become
the "good" guys given their fashion sense...
everyone compliments the uniforms,
so many films about the 2nd world war
have been made, actors seem to be itchy
to wear a **** uniform...
   and that's the truth.
               the polish winged hussar uniform
is probably 2nd in the rank of desirable
attire for movies...
                but sometimes you can really
make a sloppy pancake from something grand,
because you wrote the event like a yawn...
then you can really make a soufflé from
something miserable, something grey, something
everyday... and then you hear a ****...
everyone laughs, and then engages in
                 the blame-game... who dun it?
and that's true,
    people reach for the top shelves of history,
and think the exciting event will provide them
with an exciting encoding of the end,
it never happens like that,
           then sometimes think that the most
enduring, most modest, most boring acts in
life will never becoming epics of script,
   and that's where they're wrong...
    it doesn't take a war to excite the writing,
sometimes, the most mundane of all possible
aretefacts of people tattooing the earth with
an imprint, can become the most soul-devestating
to adrenaline-junkies...
   but at least resourceful...
             and whenever you use "complicated"
words easily, investing in the vocabulary bank,
and then spew, like a drunk girl
                        on the streets of harlow,
   and you can see the words cling together,
and see that no "trick" of subversion took place,
i.e. using the thesaurus...
   you can spot the use of thesaurus in
novels most prominently...
      but it's there:
sometimes the subject matter may seem exciting,
and it is, but with they way it's presented,
it's hardly worth a mention...
         and then the most mundane event
in the history of man, repeated exponentially,
but depicted in a transcendental way,
can claim navigating superiority over the "grand"
events... like state funerals...
             i.e.? he can dress himself as a god:
but end up speaking like an idiot...
most of the time, i've learned,
   it's not what you write about,
        rather, how you write about it...
the "why" is equally spread between the two approaches;
the former usually requires much
volume, and becomes a novel,
  the latter? most probably is a sort of poetry.