Death watches us all.
At our birth, death lies beyond sight
and is merely informed of our existence.
But as time progresses, death plods forth
from beyond the horizon to the fog’s end.
At that point, death watches,
looming in the distance,
standing, dark as night.
For the unfortunates death comes early.
For the over-extenders death waits patiently.
But for all, death comes.
We near death; death nears us,
counting down our every breath
until the last.
A broken little heart entangles her tears,
that come from a person that she'll never see.
Wet rain boots and dirty feet make her forget
about the darkest nights. Her bed and blankets
are like souvenirs from home; a house she'll never
remember. Lies and "I'm sorry"s are trapped in her
pigtails, dangling behind her ears, whispering such
morbid pain among her lullabies. With every cry she's
screamed for you, can you even hear her? She's afraid
to sleep alone, as the TV erases nightmares oozing from
her eyes, do you care at all? Lost toys and old photographs
make her plead; Oh, but why? She'll never understand the
love she couldn't have, the love you wouldn't give--
I made this poem a long time ago.
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!
zach 3d
Sinews thread, lie in wait.
Six stems of woad slosh at the rim.
Word for word,
Shutters frame— squalls fume
beneath such formless cusps.

Silver bowl, absinthe spoon.
Six stems of woad slosh at the rim.
Here and there,
Grounded stars— moons brood
Beneath such formless cusps.

Station dreams, faint hiss
of pearl.
Six stems of woad slosh at the rim.
Morbid husks,
Wind’s whistle, moves—
Beneath such formless cusps.

Steady bawl; sorrow’s depths.
Six stems of woad slosh at the rim.
Waves and waves,
Broken oars—traverse
Beneath such formless cusps.

Signal shout; flowing sash.  
Six stems of woad slosh at the rim.
Days and days,
Battered bands—hold out
Beneath such formless cusps.
Dolores 4d
It is so easy to manipulate the weak,
But is it really their fault?

Is it your fault if someone steals your wallet
When you leave it on the table
And go out for a moment,
Thinking: "There is no one in this room
Who would steal my wallet.
People here are good and kind."
And when you come back, all you see
Is a clean rectangular mark
Surrounded by the hills of dust?

Is it your fault if while you are crossing the road
A driver does not see you and crashes into you
And you survive but he dies?
Should anyone blame you for being there
At that unfortunate moment and place?

Is it your fault if you hate
Yourself and your existence so much
That you want to end it all?
And when the end is finally here,
People are extremely shocked,
"How could such a happy person
Do something like that?
How could such a good person
Do something so cruel to others?
To the family and friends?
So selfish and vain!"

We look for faults in others
But we are oftentimes blind
To our own imperfections.

Unfortunate childhood is the source
Of all evil and of a morbid mind.
We must understand it
And support the weak.

It is so easy to manipulate the weak,
But is it really their fault...?
Naïvety of some gullible and weak people is sometimes used by stronger ones for evil purposes.

— The End —