Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Willow Branche Aug 2014
“Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about.
When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”.
The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide…

But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.”
Taking place where you calumniate
with hidden mask behind interface

An embolism hidden behind your lines
Where a falsetto lies your charm

How you create isobaric pressure degradation between your monodical screaming mee-mee's

Creator of sheol , abode of the dead poets
So supine in way and thought

Where will your Valhalla be
You valetudinarian
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Caluminate - to utter maliciously false statements .

Interface - a shared boundary across

embolism - a swelling of a blood vessel due to blockage

isobaric pressure degradation - lines drawn on a weather map marking increasing or decreasing air pressure

Sheol - the place of the dead

supine - failure to act due to moral weakness

Valhalla - Norse hall of God's where slain hero's are received

valetudinarian - one who shows unduly concern for their health
Jeff Stier Jun 2017
Eternity's cogs
geared and ratcheted
to the chain of time

We settle for the simple
ignore and refuse to witness
the obvious glory
of this world

insist on a miserly view
a pinched token

Then the night
closes in
an embolism erupts
into silence

I take a different view
hold out hope
for far horizons
settle for nothing
and struggle to drive
a hard bargain
with one who holds
all the cards

In the end
I expect beauty
a bright light
and a chilling plunge
into the grey Pacific

I hope for more
of course
a taste of watercress
a glass of wine
and an epiphany

All paid for by grace.
Micheal Wolf Aug 2019
About three years ago I visited the Cavern pub on Matthew Street. My friend Ian Prowse runs the open Mic night. They have two rules. No cover versions and three songs maximum. I hadn't been for a while and was immediately set upon by Ian to sing a song he likes that I wrote. So when the time came. Up I got and sang. After I went to the bar, my nerves shot. I ordered a drink and a lady approached me and said how much she enjoyed it. We chatted and she asked was I there every week. I said sadly no I have other commitments. She then said she would be back next week as working in Liverpool again would I like to meet up for a drink? . I agreed to meet at 7, Matthew Street. I had just met Heidi.
The next Monday I finished work. Jumped the train to James Street and there she was. I asked had she eaten yet and she hadn't. So we went to a little Thai place on South John Street. We sat down ordered a bottle of white wine and made our selections. By the time we had finished the starters there was about 1cm of wine left in the bottle and she was very chatty and loud. Much to the delight of the couple on the table next too us who seemed to hang on her every word.
The main course came and went as did the second bottle. I still hadn't got halfway into my second glass. Now truly smashed she says "I suppose you will want a BJ after this?" The lady on the table next too us almost choked, her husband let out a laugh and I said, I know not why, "That sounds nice, but I was looking forward to the Apple pie with ice cream to be fair."
That was it for the couple next to us. His wife almost had an embolism and he laughed his head off.
Heidi got up threw her napkin on the table, downed her glass of wine in one, announced to the fellow dinners "He's not getting laid tonight" Turned, almost demolished the table leaving, and stormed out. The couple next to me now in tears, the waitress comes to the table and asks "Err is the lady coming back?" I reply No I don't think so.
She then asks would I like dessert?
Before I can say a word the chap on the table next to us says "I hope you have apple pie and Ice cream for the poor guy"
The waitress said "No" and that finished it. Three tables of people laughing relentlessly.
I sat and had melon ***** and they chatted like we had known each other for years.
What of Heidi?
She was never to be seen again.
M Seifert M Mar 2013
and he isolates himself again
and she cries her eyes out in a crowd of friends
and we buy it all just to keep ourselves comfortable
and we lie to ourselves constantly
because the truth hurts and if they fall
we fall

what side are you on?
are we playing the same game even?
are we all double agents
out in the open?
are we all playing pretend
or is some of this the real thing?

is it eerie how i hear you
before you're even looking?

the best of us will be left performing magic tricks
for the guys weilding the biggest sticks

stick to the plan
get a tan
and collect fans
because you need to keep cool
[sure]
not in front of everyone
no
not ready for that
no please
no not while they're here
they
they need more time

you need more


you've had plenty

i've had enough

we all have

precisely my point

the point hasn't even begun to be reached

we're at it again

battling 'til surrender

remind me why


i can't breathe around her

her last wish kept me up all night

sir
they're at it again
we can't seem to stop them this time

we asked them to leave

i believe you
please

grieve





the loss of many
the loss of one man
or any number


it's been keeping me up
no slumber
that's right
every night
i couldn't sleep feeling another one leave
i made myself feel everything i could imagine
happening all inside of me

have they forgotten what it feels like?
have they robbed themselves of what they crave most
because they couldn't handle the pain of knowing any longer?

and now i'm numb
like you

still
                                                  craving
are
                                                  meaning
you
                                                  seeming
in
                                                  playing
love?
                                                dreaming?
no
                                                    for
ever?
                                                   lost
never
                                                    cost
not
                                                   most
once?
                                                   such
maybe
                                                 horrible
every
                                                   hosts
time

never
been shown the meaning
never
had it spelled out before
letters
in the sand
holding hands
no longer there

in circles we had drawn
we sang our favorite made up songs
it didn't matter that we didn't know the words
everyone could play along

i wouldn't remember later
but those songs reverberated
'round the walls of the crater

if i never see you in my dreams again
it's just one more i'll keep drawing until i get it right
one more silent vigil lit by fireflies


this morning ritual of mine is getting old
i've bought and sold enough to trade my soul
i've trained my soul for the day they take it all away
and it won't matter
'cause it's not my game and i never wanted to play
take me to the place you want me
stake me out
make sure it's nice enough outside
a place where children play
with paths for bikes to ride

you showed me in their faces
you showed me and i'll never be the same

i'm falling again
and i'm leaking  for my own sake
i'm speaking for no one in particular
i'm making it up as i go along
as i feel it every word feels wrong

but the sound of these
the rhythm of my knees shaking
the symbolism of an embolism
makes me tremble maybe there's more to stem from

can you trace the outline on the wall?
can you taste any of it at all?
can you hear if he's still in there?
can you tell if he has enough air?
can you get ahold of him?
how long's it been?
don't look at me that way
none of us ever expected this
someone should have expected this
is this serious?
should we be calling someone?
is there a problem?
are we in trouble?
don't you talk to anyone

the wrong mind in the wrong hands
will be forced to make new plans
wrong man sent to a new land
will take ownership and make demands

stained sheet
stars i lie beneath
cars i almost died behind the steering wheel
screaming out my rotting teeth
dotting every line
spotting every guy in the crowd in striped shirts
every spy in every automobile
behind every pile of rubble
behind every "i'm sorry we're having a little trouble with the connection"
"oh you didn't get my text? it must have been redirected..."

*11/5/12
Whiskurz Sep 2012
She said, "Daddy leave the light on,
For you know I'm afraid of the dark"
I couldn't tell you how many times
I've heard her make that remark

I'd always wait 'til she fell asleep
Then sneak and turn off the light
Then pull the covers off her head
And kiss my angel goodnight

I've killed at least thousand monsters
Who live beneath her bed
But every night she'd sleep with the light
And cover her tiny head

I woke up early sunday morning
And decided to peak inside
Only to find in the middle of the night
My pride and joy had died

They say she had an embolism
She passed away in her sleep
I dreaded the burial most of all
Some place dark and deep

She said, "Daddy leave the light on,
For you know I'm afraid of the dark"
I couldn't tell you how many times
I've heard her make that remark
Dead Rose One Jan 2015
how
tears fall
off my face

cog the recognition screen,
walking behind your brain
make eyes rearward,
laugh upon meeting my
****** embolism

purposed to provoke
names of deities invoke
ninety answer, choose me,
final solution, choose none,
this my first chapter,
you just read my first
last verse

we already met in a previrus life
Butch Decatoria Nov 2016
Days have ventured by
haphazard-quick
but nevertheless captious
opinionated as a castrated casuist
numb but brain-ready over-drive
constant thickened thoughts
for the next fix...

Whatever city you befriend
whatever your home,
boulevard far or closer Strip
or Suburbia ever-green
she is easy to find
anyone looking
a dirge in their eyes...

As much as one
would like to disappear
with sniffing silence that comes
when the nose itches white wishes
or lungs
burn to breathe
cacophony...

Days will drag on
insect insidiously
all the while, she waits
to enliven Saturday night conversations
becomes geode-gibberish
gladness
from a tunnel of a dollar bill
a straw
she knows / she stands in
whatever city you befriend
whatever your home
she speaks your dry tongue
a language that weeps
escapism
embolism...

She is very forgiving:
the space between numb
& living.
Written in 2008
I
being crucified
died.
You did not see me fall
or see the memories that dripped my blood down the concrete walls of yesterday and when I lay there still and broken by the empty stores and unlit lamps,franked as if by postage and the stamps that stamped upon my shattered soul,I felt
whole.
In pieces and yet pieced together,the man you like or not it's up to you whether you do.
I remain a reminder of the pain now gone and one remembers a touch too much at times,
hard and easy times,crayoned soft times,lead pencil lines that tore across my skin,tin tack look back time pressing in on me,
but you did not see me fall or bleed, recognise the need,stem the flow,
it was I who stood aside and watched me slowly drop and couldn't stop the embolism,attacked by criticism,the symbolism all but knew and I,and I
was crucified bled out,read out cuneiform until it dawned on me that you could see and I was but a symptom not the cause.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2017
half ring*

a present, a thank you compliment by way of a poem, for the zealous, tiny, poetess spark who writes exquisitely and calls herself Cynthia Henon*
~~~
strange old night-stands, a stained tan blonde wood
that's going ancient grey, but still handsome in a fitting way,
the front drawer hand painted floral in what I choose
to believe are by Italian hands in Italian reds and greens,
not so fancy as I make it sound, but worn and durable and
not overly functional but two silent, uncomplaining eye witnesses to a ten year ancient, greying love affair

wood ages, human eyes squint, failing to counteract the minute, advancing daily dimming, not paying close attention to the
Richter magnitude of the accumulated changes

the morning coffee ritual as catholic as morning mass,
a straw woven coaster to protect the sun blanched top,
hardly necessary, just a good habit, one of the  rituals that glue,
that couples use to keep the coupling intact

the cumulative subtle changes, the crackling sound unheard, the cracks in everything, even in the human tissue,
breaking, the papered over filler of purposeful ignorance,
cannot forever resist the erosion of the cancer of the
taking for granted

place the coffee cup half on, half off the coaster, un-noticing,
leaving half a ring that will now never disappear, never be
completed, causing her to fly into rage that rips the
complacent band-aids, worn dikes that were holding back the barricaded tears, but the sea~see
level was always rising and though visible, the revelation remained unchosen


later that day, I drive away forever with Yo-Yo Ma riding shotgun,
in charge of map reading and consolation music, thinking
half ring, half ring, half ring, half ring,
an embolism of symbolism, good for a play on words,
and a couple of poems about uncoupling

8:22am 7/1/17
PK Wakefield Oct 2010
y speaking breath
                       l                                take
                 p                          timidly
              e                                   (yearning sweltering swelling fire
          e                                                          and cut languidly
       t                                                                    the shape of subtle
   s                                                          carnal clangor;into the passive
                                                                 mound of my coffee hard
                                                                      embolism) an anabolic
                                                                    shriveling eruptioning
                                                                 testosterone fountain


                                                   i,m not my own. at this quivering
                                             plussing of my heady gobble
                                                            i,m
                                                      only stone softly
                                                  ungently
                                                                  an engine
                                                           of pure
                                                        *****
                                                                     pumping
neth jones Apr 2022
at a glimpse i clock the sky
a curtain's been draped
     and we are all shaded
all of nature shares one direction
     narrowing on the horror :
a munking and blotted violation
     the sun has filled with dark ink
an embolism out of the order of life
     voiding over us
                     over the city
                     the world described beyond
                       all voided over

i fall
         dropped
         and shucked
the people around me go simple
dumb and bound with crimple gawps
     we are mugged by the sight

i feel like a farmed over minefield
              furrows being turned
trotted out
             anointed fears climb my throat
it is a show sung ill
          sol
       darker sunk
     than its surrounding leadened soak
yet ringed tightly with an annihilating halo

practical thought becomes clotted
   and my primal processor is tinkered with
evil witterings squirrel about in my thinker
my being is topped up with depravity

i must surely **** someone ?
but who..
(that kid with drool ? /
that business suit with brand name trainers ?)
   and for what reason ?

i madly stare about
look at them ; so human and null
potential victims all
                   raking in snapshots of this ecliptic venom
                     adding to the vat collective online
Prune The Brutes !
it is The Eighth Day and I know my role
Ha !
        such livid thoughts scheme

i shall wait out this exposure looked down upon
take some pics with the others
perpetrate goodly behaviour
mimic the tossers
pass through the ordeal
        with communal protection
                    and live another day
             happy slapped
                       with fresh mad
                               thought
Anthony Perry May 2019
Back and forth in repetition
Trapped in a twilight's shaking embolism
Asunder is the father envisioned
Atrophied arms locked at the behest of a child christened

Lives intersect and for a moment, love is born
Trials are created and for the first time a name is worn
Among the quiet of involuntary matricide a promise is signed and sworn

Familial pain meets the curses of life
Perennial anguish clenches blood soaked sheets and for the first time, hate is born in the twists of umbilical strife

Heartbroken and greiving next to a pallid flame that's smothered and lifeless

Here, for the first time, tragedy is born

A new dawn so precious it's fire kept close, buried in the sternum of a giant secured in an indentured embrace

It's here, for the first time, a god is born
Stop asking for medical advice on Facebook,
Your superglue stitches and peroxide mismanagement
Will cost you more than a doctor's visit.
Stop asking for medical advice on Facebook
If you want to keep your limb.
I've found more competence on the "interweb."
Stop asking for medical advice on Facebook.
An oxygen embolism and cellulitis will
Have you putting out more than the Urgent Care.
Please, stop asking for medical advice on Facebook!
-Sincerely,
The EMT student who is constantly preventing disaster
For people with minor injuries who think 50's era first aid advice
Is a suitable alternative.
Chapter VI
Strigoi frigate

In the spring of 331 a. C., Alexander left Egypt returning to the port of Tire, where his fleet was. From there he went to Antioch, crossing the valley of the Orontes River, and reached the Euphrates River at the height of Tapsaco, where he founded the city of Nicephorus to be a stronghold and deposit for army supplies. Here he learned that Darío was in Arbelas, so he crossed the Tigris and headed north along the eastern bank of the river. Vernarth's troops would depart from Tire where his fleet was located, which came from Sudpichi, from the Horcondising Empire. Legend has it that in the heights of the Gulf, when his army had been sailing, a mysterious tempest of hot winds from Hormuz broke out on his squads, at the heights of 665 miles from Um kasar, they had encountered a ship from present-day Romania . When spotting them and intervening inside this frigid ship, there was nothing but the creaking of their masts and their main **** spurring, they presented palisade curtains that came from Sighisoara / Transilvania; where the very like Vlad Tepes was sitting behind the captain's camera writing at his desk. Every so often he would take out a handkerchief to dry his ****** nose like drops of slimy, slimy jelly ink. He was writing a letter in the text of which said:

Vlad Tepes says to the Vernarth captain:
Mardiath,  his noble and loyal hussar of the sea. Head of his Gulf fleets, he came across the deck, as he turned around by the bowsprit, picked up and struck by some parasitic ropes that shone like lost thighs of gods in prayers they felt for the whistles of the wind. He approaches and descends the dark ladder stairs towards the water pump whose heresies this ship Vladiana was hanging.
“When I train myself to write saying who I am who I am, I only receive from the purulence of the multitudes, in centuries by centuries, not finding a basis to answer me. They say they do not know what to answer because there is no content that compares to those who have no Age, Life or compassion. That I only have to communicate with the Strigoi messenger articulated with the souls of the dead who come out of their graves at night to terrorize the neighborhood. That it is the same as me condemned to sail and swarm the World of the Nosferatu aristocracy, survivor of all human vanity, in all the empires of the World”

Now I know that no one will answer my thoughts. There is no ink that dares spread a comparable feather that resists my words of ammonia Strigoi, usurped from a Balinger ship to some Flemish pirates, seconded by a Panescalm barge, which was throwing 64 thousand massacred bodies of the Bubonic Plague.

Mardiath, graduated from the balinger and left her sword to Vlad next to a geographical table to find her destiny in some maiden who attends to her disorders more than her ganglia suppurate discouragement. He heads back to Tire to meet Vernarth. And her minions,  to finally head to the wild fields of Gaugamela.
On the gallon of the Macedonian Wine cruet Vlad left him a notice...:

“In order for Strigoi to leave their victims alone, seeds must be scattered with nails hidden inside them. These obsessive creatures cannot go their way without first counting the seeds by throwing the brides' lace to the altar. When they ***** with the hidden nails, they start counting again… ”

In the frenzy of his prophecies, Darius had recruited a new army after his defeat at Issos. From Babylon he advanced north, passed the left bank of the Tigris, and continued toward Arbelas as if guessing that he would never escape the Alexandrian shadow, where he established his supply and his harem. Then he directed the army to Gaugamela, a place that had a wide plain that would favor the movement of its numerous mounted troops but not on Hellenic horses with Homeric gales within reach. He even proceeded to level the terrain and remove obstacles as if emphasizing fearing that the moon would resemble holes in his strategies where his dreams would fall, turning Gaugamela into an immense field of maneuvers suitable and great and indigestible for his chariots equipped with scythes to move on the oppressor wheels.

Thirty-sixth Oases in Siwa:
Alexander Magnus after founding Alexandria he marches to the Siwa oasis, where he is proclaimed by the priests as "son of Ammon", god already identified with Zeus by the Greeks. With this, he consolidated his own divine ancestry, as a descendant of the Argéada dynasty, which went back to Heracles and, therefore, to Zeus himself.

The entire dynasty moved from its acropolis under the limits of each empire to what would be the final battle. This time Darío does not want surprises, so he arrives at the battle stage in advance. As always, he has his cavalry on the flanks, with the heavy infantry in the center and the rear. It also has more than 50 war chariots with sickles on the wheels and about 15 elephants.

Alexander launches the attack diagonally and the Persian left wing defends himself as best he can. Vernarth, Simultaneously harasses Strigoi's allegories by subordinating the Persian chariots that speedily launch upon the Macedonians. Many of the drivers are headless by the arrows of the draconian archers. The rest pass by as the Macedonian infantry opens. This strategy is complemented by a second line of heavy infantry called the Force of the Dead from in the Siwa Mountains, which receives the stray tanks, while the first line turns around and attacks them from the rear guard surrounding them. Opening a gap between the Persian lines, Alexander's cavalry managed to wedge themselves in search of Darius. As in Issos, the Persian king is stuck and unable to maneuverIn this onslaught, see how the prognosis moves more fluidly, after the textual support with Strigoi in his Balinger he was able to allow himself to advance the ellipsis of the ****** battle and more importantly of the defenders of the embolism of the tyrant and secular Gods, in his caves of lost and soul pains. Since this last festival of the Siwa soils, the events of Alexander Magnus and Vernarth can be seen.

He only separated the lashed rows of threads from the majestic Bumodos, before entering the back room of the great fight. It is now thirty-six times that he needs the therapeutic methods of Walekiria, to supply him through his veins with ****** essences to immortalize his stout columns that support the beams of the Hellenic world.  Caryatid that flows through the delta of the cries of all the heroes,  devoid of helmets under the limits to resign.

Ellipsis Tomb of the Patriarchs:
Vernarth says: You are not a vision ... nor an illusion, nor a lonely image, because if so, include my image to accompany you in this tragedy! He tells Walekiria, his seductive valhalica.
My little Walekiria, not the slightest disdain, will make me leave you halfway, we are in the same position to remove the terror that creeps through the spaces of the plain of the Gaugamela cemetery. Here we will scare away all the demons that betray our plans. Only you here in the Charioteer's particle crypt. Mardiath tied to the acacia and Alikanto spitting out more fiery fires that will reduce the unproductive paperwork. To improve that others optimize the sharp means to use to overcome the medium that has darkened all hopes. Now we are going to plot the plans that we have improvised in this barracks.

Walekiria says to him:
My mind together with my feeling make me closer to you Verbarth. It seems that now more than ever I will hold on to you more. Since our gross bodies lack any possibility of holding together.

Vernarth when leaving says to him:
Of the cosmic forms, yours Being has been hit in my box in Andromeda. Vitalizing and healthy part will strengthen what remains of your exploded mind and my elevated feeling to the ethereal worlds, will make rainbow emblems for your resentment.

To be continued… / under edition
STRIGOI FRIGATE
Graff1980 Sep 2016
This room is a prison
A soul ******* constriction
Of cold capitalistic ambition
Silent stares for the sake of
Professionalism

I can feel the embolism
Bubbling up in my blood vessels
Red water ready to burst
Till my heart hurts
From such callousness
In the name of business

Corporate copying
Money making, taking
And eventually losing
All that we are trained to believe
Is the measure of a successful
Human being
MegAnne McNally Jul 2016
I just returned to the place I call home and I'm already planning on leaving again.

And I know you're thinking you were only away a few days, a few more can't hurt but you see this is just what I do, this is that vice I cannot seem to kick no matter how many times I promise I'm quitting. Even the alcohol and cigarettes that stole the best years of my life don't compete with this leave-leave-leaving.

For some one who needs stability, who writes poetry in repetitions of three because her heart stutters compulsions, like embolism, like maybe it could **** me, like I don't wanna die, I have a funny obsession with making my life unstable. Always turning my world on its head, finding solace in strange places surrounded by different faces.
It never makes me happy, whether moving or stagnant I feel like I'm missing missing missing a part of me and I have no idea how to find it. It is the ghost that haunts me.

So I'm grabbing the bag I never bother to unpack, add to it my melancholy and the frightening 'what if' of my failing health, trying to not feel like a liar for promising I'd go see someone about it, trying not to feel failure in the fact that I don't know if I can stay long enough to see someone about it, trying not to feel like this is my way of kissing this life goodbye. Hopefully this isn't how I leave you.
Bryant Aug 2018
Heaven Has No Room For A Heathen
Chaotic embolism eyes
Surmise gray soot saturated skies
Tapping toes; itchy holes
Minutes dwindling proofing infinity

Grueling gastric grumble
Cringing clamy canvas
Death without a salesmen

Visceral view point; pale vacancet vogue
Familiar visage vague
Exiting velvet underground

Hoodless executioner; happy harbinger
Hyperglycemia's candy courier

Fidgeting digits
Crackle crinkling plastic shroud
Drawing desperately; whistfull twist
Pinched crimped; lonely confections
Toothy chatters clamour for their just deserts

Hungry Hanzel, ginger bread grotto
Gentrification exemption; horrid horde haven
Sensation slave station; indentured intravenous interjection
Wicked witch black tar water
Gradual plunger rise
Magma solidification; red algee bloom
Expelling crucifix prik
Shuttering sclear
Purple lips muttering

Securing salvation
winter Sep 2022
I found a song that you would like. I still have conversations with you in my head- things I've done recently that are cool, minor accomplishments, my first meeting as a dramaturg, projects I'm working on... Your absence is heavy, especially in these moments.


Pulmonary Embolism.
You look pretty close to a suicide.
I am so envious of the long death,
the kind that inches you away with each breath.


Sudden death is so strange. Especially when you were raised with death on your mind at all times. You live each day with the full understanding that it may be your last, it may be your brother's last, your sister's, your mother's,  father's. I've spent my whole life dedicated to understanding and accepting death. And I had, in fact, understood and accepted death.
And yet, when the cord snaps, when the body collapses right in front of you, struggling, trying to recover like it's any other day, and it turns out that it really is any other day, because death is always possible, and that's how death strikes- something changes inside of you, something that wants to turn your reasons and morbid obsessions into disbelief and anger. You wish you didn't understand it. You wish that understanding it would at least help you figure out how to deal.
Nothing is earned, nothing is gained. No new insight. No added perspective.
That's why they call it a loss. You only lose, and lose and lose, until you end up wondering what you even have left, and what parts of you are still there, underneath the rubble.

I want to be able to keep your belongings, but I'm unable to, because I don't have a place to put them, because the only place I had to put them was your home, which is no longer your home, which is no longer mine.

So we surrender your poetry
and reduce you to debt.
Mr Xelle Jul 27
We never give the shooters a time to tell there story
We never ask what happen to that homeless man
We never seen how the ******* became this way
We never truely understand what a working mother goes thru at night
IF I WAS PRESIDENT I WOULD MAKE THERAPY A MANDATORY THING.
Mayors would walk thru the ghetto
And the police would have to hug each other every morning.
As PRESIDENT embolism who’s black Mexican or white on interviews everyone would identify as Human.
The DNA OF YOUR STRAND WILL BE PULLED IN COURT ONLY
And all who does evil would have to clean the cemetery and be with doctors on the account of 51C- code 123
You are no more an illegal human being you would be given a name that is no name for month. And will be asked at the end of that month WOULD YOU WANT LIFE OR DEATH AFTER COMPLETING the cemetery procedures.
And last but not least every father will be celebrated in the home with all fathers of the city.
We will let the mother pick out what she knows of her lover and cloth her in all she wants and then marry them so no one ☝️ I mean no ritual of sleeping others.
Divorce is option because things happen but everyone would have to go to church after a divorce to speak what happen and see if they can work it out.

AS PRESIDENTS OF THE WORLD. We would HAVE TO meet up with the King and the Kings of the world would be like treasurers of there states and only Woman that the state approves gets to speak in one language and one tongue to the president of what there states need. So one accord and feminine and masculine energy will be.
Every year (DECEMBER 25th) they will Go To God the ruler of everything and see what we all cannot see and let him  divide or produce or give
Rammi Mar 2020
Draw, inhale
Drawn and pale
stained incisors
Like rusty pliers grip the ****
On route to lung
A tarmac stream
A wheezing flow of nicotine
Clogs and stains
As do ***** drains
To wall and build into a prison
A bulging vessel an embolism
On tar it feeds
To swell, to bleed
An internal growth of great proportion
A Red Sea splash to form an ocean
Consumed, devoured
By treacle *****
A  rosewood finish
With brass handles on it
The kids remember
They can’t forget
How you so enjoyed
Your cigarettes.

— The End —