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You know what’s worse
than loving your best friend?
Losing them because of it.
November 28, 2018
Chris Neilson Feb 2017
Stuck in a lift
with a body odoured racist
hearing their bigoted views
with no space to resist

Stuck on a desert island
with a hungry cannibal
with nothing left to lose
you're the nearest mammal

Stuck on a planet
with climate change deniers  
intent on ignoring science
confirmed political liars

Stuck between a Brexit and an EU
who knows with whom we'll trade
everyone blaming each other
we need a politician upgrade
Yes, let's just get on with it
Joel A Doetsch Jan 2012
He was definitely dead.  That much could be gathered.  He was standing over his own body, sixty feet away from the car.  fifty-nine feet away from  the telephone pole.  The pool of blood on the blacktop was rippling from the sheets of rain that were piercing it.  The rain bounced off of his lifeless eyes, staring on into the cloudy sky.   His shocked expression was forever frozen on his face.  He walked around the corpse, both fearful and excited.  He was dead....He was DEAD!  He was on the other side!  He looked around, searching for the 'white light',  but all he found  was a man dressed in a ratty  trench coat staring directly at him.  Rotting teeth smiled at him under a grungy  Fedora in a way that reminded him of a jack-o-lantern carved into the likeness of Indiana Jones that had been left out past Thanksgiving.  A withered hand beckoned him.

He was not hesitant.  He was not fearful.  

Those were emotions controlled by a brain that was currently about as useful as a bag full of gelatin.  He strode forward and took the man's hand.  It was neither hot nor cold.  They were no longer in the rain.  They were in a room with a large monitor
sitting in front of a station of various knobs, buttons, and switches.  A large leather chair apathetically awaited use .  He was aware that none of these objects  actually existed, because they were in the place where things don't exist.  Still, he sat down
and turned on the monitor.  He looked at the labels.  Some were obvious, such as P L A Y,  P A U S E, and S T O P.  Others were strange, like the ones labeled F I R S T S and L A S T S.  He pressed the former.  A list appeared with items as simple as "Kiss" to ones as specific as "Sprained Left Ankle in November".

He chose the former.

The screen went blank, then a video appeared.  It was a boy and a girl lying on a hill on a blanket at the onset of dusk.  The boy he instantly recognized as himself. The boy brushed his hand against hers.  She let him.  Fingers now entwined as they stared at each other.  At the time it had felt like hours, but it was less than a
minute before lips pushed apart to make way for tongues.  His first kiss.  It didn't take him long to figure out how the machine worked from that point on.  

He spent years going through every second of his life and reliving it from a new perspective. It didn't matter, he had all the time that never was and never would be.  He saw his mistakes and his triumphs, his loves and his heartbreaks.  Finally, he decided he was
finished.  It was time to go.  The man in the Fedora smiled.  Smiled that Cheshire smile

They were in a hallway.  It seemed to stretch for miles.  Every twenty paces or so, there was a person, standing on a platform, obscured in darkness.  He walked to the first one.
A light flickered on.  It was his mother.  She looked like she did when he was a boy, vibrant and full of life.  She never lost that, even as her body aged and her health declined, she always had something to smile about.  He talked to this apparition of his mother.   They talked for hours about his life, of random topics.  Things they had never had time to talk about when they were both alive.  After some time, she gave him one of her wry
smiles.  He nodded and made his way to the next person.  His father.  

He continued this for quite some time.  He talked to everyone from his brother to a guy he used to get high with in college.  Years passed as he said his final goodbyes to all the people in his life
that he had ever known.  All of them were happy for him.  All of them had something to tell him that he had never known about them in life.  None of them were real.  When he was done, he turned to the man in the fedora.  A smile.  A smile that had a personality all its own, a smile that simultaneously showed compassion and seething hatred.

The last room.  No one said it was the last room, but it had that feeling of finality to it. It was spartan, nothing in it except a marble floor that seemed to stretch for eternity in every direction.  It probably did.  In front of him were two pedestals.  On each of those
pedestals was himself.  The one on the left was wearing a fine tailored suit, had radiating skin and a smile that cameras feasted on.  The one on the right was a stark contrast.  The teeth he had left were hanging lazily from the roots.  His hair that he had left was thin, oily, and ridden with lice.  His mouth turned upwards in an insane grin that was only
matched by his thirsty, bloodshot eyes that seemed to bulge from his pockmarked skin

                                          They both spoke at once.

You were born on                                           You were born on
July 3, 1985.  Your                                           July 3, 1985.  Your
parents fed your                                         mother died when you
curiosity at a young                                     were 4.  Your father
age.  Your passion                                   turned to alcohol.  He
was art.  You painted                                 took his pain out on you.
your first work when                                     You dropped out of    
you were nine.  By the                                high school and moved
time you were 16, you                             as far away from this
were renowned as a                             life as you could.  You
artistic prodigy.  You                      quickly discovered a bad crowd.
attended the Art                                     You met a girl, Cindy.
Institute of Chicago                                       You got her pregnant.
on a full scholarship.                                   You started selling drugs
It was there that you                                     to make ends meet
would meet Claire,                                       for your accidental family
your future wife. By                                       It wasn't long before
the time you completed                                     You made a mistake
your school, every                                             and ended up in jail.
museum wanted a                                        years later, when you
piece of your work                                       were released
hanging in their gallery                               you found that Cindy      
Your work would be                                       had killed herself
remembered for                                                   and your son.
hundreds of years after                                       You had no job          
your death.  You had                                                 no skills
a wonderful family,                                        You spent your days
fame, fortune, and                                          doing odd jobs for
everything that came                                   money.  Money that
with it.  You lived                                           You spent on drugs
until 89, where you                                        Until the age of 45
died peacefully in                                       Where you froze on a
your bed, surrounded                           street corner, surrounded
by loved ones.  This                        by human excrement.  This
is your life's best                                           is your life's worst
possible outcome                                         possible outcome



He nodded, then looked at the man in the fedora.  That smile crept up.  A smile like a hyena. He snapped his fingers.  Two doors appeared.  One was Oaken and battered.  The grains of wood barely visible over years of neglect.  The other door was new and had just been  painted with a fresh coat of sky blue paint.  

The man spoke for the first time.

This is the last decision you shall ever make.  The door on your left will lead you to the  afterlife, and the judgement that awaits you.  Whatever is decided, that is where you will spend eternity.  The door on the right will allow you to be reborn as a new soul.  This one will no longer exist.

He gave it a good long ponder.  Had he been good enough in life to pass the judgement?  What if he ended up in a hellish nightmare for the rest of eternity?  Could he do better
if he started fresh?  The thoughts swirled about him like a whirlwind until finally.

Years later

He chose.

The man in the fedora smiled.
I'm aware this isn't a poem.  It started off as one, but then I kept writing.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2016
<>

for the early morning teach

<>

she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update

"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."

it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain

instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears

"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."

and Mississippi ******,
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up


alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:

"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"

but 38% worse?

not an even-steven rounded up 40%,

should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?

and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)

and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,

it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her

"thinking of you"

or the 38% larger version thereof -


*"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"
2:44 AM,
of course
H3L3 Nov 2016
Dear Sister, you chose to leave.
You let me grieve upon loss.
You let me put myself last and yourself first.
You let me worry when I shouldn't.
You let me cry for you.
You let me get angry.
You let me feel pain.
You let me feel anxious.
You let.. you didn't let me do anything.
I chose to be the one to do that for you. To feel that with you.
You decided to take that for granted, and for that.. I owe you nothing.
I don't owe you a place to stay.
I don't owe you my love.
I don't owe you kindness.
I don't owe you anything.
Nobody owes you their time of day.
Nobody owes you the physical items you hold in your hand.
So why go around treating everyone like dirt?
To make the people that care about you suffer.
If it's to make yourself feel better, then I hope you feel worse.
To my.. *dear* sister.
Diana Garcia Jul 2018
And now I can get over you the way I should have
Knowing I didn’t do all that I could have
Now I can wallow in regret
Cause my ego had done nothing but bring me dread.
Remorse.
It’s my own fault my hearts so coarse
Now you have two daughters with her
For better
For worse
This whole time I thought I was cursed
But I was just getting ready to ride the hearse
In a hurry to be buried
I’ve done my worse
This is all new
This part ain’t rehearsed  
You went from not even crossing my mind
To being  featured in my verse
It hit me like a ton of bricks
I hope this feeling
Ain’t the type that sticks

If my man finds out
He’ll have a fit
He’ll pick a corner for me to sit
Like a piece of furniture
But I guess this is what I get..
Therapy.. can’t kive with it.. can’t  live without it..


#pastlove

At least I’ve gained some perspective
I never told you
Those scary three words
'Cause I thought you wouldn’t care
But now it’s too late to say them
I realize that living in regret
Is worse than being a fool
I really loved you and I wish I had said that...
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
I would not know that wounded hearts will never bend
Except it's by the gentlest wind
Had You not blown Your love on me

I did not know that arrows sprung with poisoned darts
Could be dislodged from human hearts
Till You began to set me free

How should I know that crushing loss can by its pain
Yield intimacy's most treasured gain
Unless You gave Your Word to me?

I could not know that failures worse than greatest fears
Might actually bless through staining tears
This soul undone by Your decree

But now I know that Love's own touch
Brings untold joy which healeth much
From One Who cleaves so faithfully
Umi Aug 2018
On that day which caused my voice to disappear,
All those around me rejoiced and had a feast, celebrating this moment
The words I say brought people tremor, fear or just pure hatred,
Everyone hated them the moment I moved my lips to convey along side them in hope to find someone who could become even a friend.
I was of course wrong all along, deserted for the reason that they found what I said in some sense weird or obscure, maybe irrational,
Was it my means or my purpose that scared them away ?
My looks or my style of conveying to appear more likable to them ?
In the end it didn't even matter for a second, as their false smiles carried the message of their fake friendship and intentions.
Maybe now that I won't have to converse with sound any further, those words of mine might reach someones heart and touch it instead,
But that is simply a distant dream, because everyone hates the words I say, perhaps it is meaningless to seek meaning in my useless self,
All I can do now is to heave in sobs,
Left behind, I can no longer even cry,

~ Umi
I don't think you should go to therapy anymore.
Why? I was just starting to feel okay.
It seems to be making you worse.
Did you ever stop to think, that maybe you are
the reason that I'm getting worse?

If you need to be on medication, we can go to the local clinic,
they'll give it to you like they give to me.

Those women are not trained to diagnose depression,
they aren't licensed to diagnose anxiety. Or PTSD.


We just don't have the money to pay for appointments

Now you tell me the truth, yeah? That your cigarettes
and that disgusting beer is more important than I am?


It will be fine, honey. You don't need therapy anyway

*

It will be fine, huh? Really?
It will be fine when I stop caring about school anymore?
It will be fine when I cut myself to deal with the stress?
It will be fine when I have to keep everything inside,
because I'm scared if I vent to my friends too much,
that I'll scare them away? That I will lose them all?
It will be fine when I cry myself to sleep because
everything is starting to spiral downwards again?

So blame it on the therapy, blame it on the psychiatrist,
hell blame it on the medication if you so desire.
But you and I both know that therapy was never
the thing that was truly making me worse.
A little rant, if you will. It's by no means good, but I'm just in one of those moods. It will soon be a year since I stopped going to therapy. A year since I stopped taking antidepressants for my depression and anxiety. And I'm struggling.
LearnfromBOBD Jan 12
Truth couldn’t find a place to sleep,
He decided to lie.
Yo mind was sincere, saying Hi.
Yo smile is talking, but couldnt speak
Oh you are indisputable
Now I see’
injuries are inevitable.
My breathe so freeze'
Akemi Jul 2018
sometimes a pit
gazing inchoate
smiling past it all

inès passes the mirror
a smouldering black shape

today i looked at no one

tomorrow i’ll arrive.
che vuoi?
nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing

but people keep returning i look away frigid frightened caught in an inescapable duration
people i knew or know or want to know
shrinking in the corner like bellows lungs the sounds of buildings collapsing in reverse
one day it'll be better worse you smell like cigarettes you smell like process irrevocable.
valencia Dec 2018
the boy i loved is dead
buried six feet under ground
nothing to protect him from the freezing soil
but a casket in a coffin under pounds of earth
permafrost and freezing blades of grass
you are really trapped
there no way we can reach you now
is this a fate worse than death?

being locked in the ground like it’s a prison,
this boy was a poem and instead of buried at sea or buried in the rain, we couldn't bear to set him free so we dressed him up and shoved him in a coffin, nailed him in and left him there to rot while we grieved.

i tried to tell them to exhume you, but they thought i was broken and disturbed,
everything you said was meaningful but they can’t bear to find the truth,  so the hide behind empty words.

they wouldn’t even let me give your eulogy because i was a lover, not your mother or a friend. the want lock me up because they think i’m crazy, put me in an institution and hope i can paint it all away, but the fever  in my body is not lust, it’s pain.

i know what they did to you.

the boy i loved is six feet underground, mother nature silencing him so i can’t hear the sound of him screaming, and all this din inside my head is telling them i’m
not right in the brain (they can’t trust my pain) they won’t dig you up because they hate to face their mistakes, they hate to see your blue, frozen  face

they put you here in this place but they refuse to listen so i keep screaming and the flowers in my chest grow larger, heavier, a rose around the briar and i start to think that i’m the one whose dying, they won’t believe me when i say you were buried alive.

i’ll die and they’ll put me next to you and you’ll still be screaming, calling my name, asking for me again and again to let you out but they won’t believe me when i say you were buried alive.

the boy i loved is in the ground but he is not dead, and this is not denial i can hear his creaming inside my head, he is not dead, you buried him alive.
only a metaphor
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath


Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013
your effusive and lengthy comments are each a poem in their own right.  

Tinkered with June 22, 2013
With a push from Bala,
A serial peeper, thank God!
Nobody Jul 2017
Time is on your side,
what a beautiful lie;
so many reasons to cry,
so many wishes to die.
Spare time is worse,
to reflect on your curse.
When life moves this slow
you prefer a physical blow.
You just want to go,
you’re sick of feeling alone.
You quit asking why
when you’re too tired to try.
You barely get by
and long for the end.
This hand you were dealt
you can’t ever amend.
You'd rather fold,
It's getting so old.
Your life's a joke,
even with money;
you'll always be broke.
Camilla Peeters Sep 2018
my stomach is infested with worms i try
to pull them out one by one they keep
getting longer though i keep
getting lonelier though they eat
my insides and i am pulling nerves and
arteries alongside the pain i am
almost to the point of being numb
please fill my emptiness with blood and
pour it out all over me so i can
breathe only in red
or please let me lie to myself completely
have been plagued by nightmares
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
Johnny walker Nov 2018
Until Helen I knew nothing of love, she showed me what love really
    means
       Being there for that person
no matter what, It not
just the
about Intimacy side, I'ts being there for every day
things when they sick or like my wife who became disabled needed 24/7care
you do it without question out love
For nothing ever too much and despite all Helen's problems I'd have her back tomorrow
and do It all again, just to have her with me so I could
brush hair get her ready
to go out for the day, take her for morning tea and toast
which Helen loved to do
for better or worse
you stay with them no matter
what, you see It through because that what real love Is
Helen showed me what real love Is It goes much deeper than just the Intimacy side of a relationship It's being for everything no matter what for better or worse that what true love Is
neha Dec 2016
seconds, minutes, hours, days

spent hoping it was just a phase

as his parents sent him to a church where they'd say

"son, you better pray the *** away"

surely this "God" had far more important issues

than a boy in a closet with a handful of tissues

surely this "hell" was a place for far worse people

than a boy forced to confess his sins under a church steeple
Christian Ek Jun 2014
Disappointment is thrown strongly at my direction.
Blame gathers in large quantities like a pest infestation.
"It's your fault" and words like "You always make mistakes" evoke anger.
Anger which I want to take out on myself and take out on others.
I can excel in my work of choice, I know I'm more than average.
The bad gets pointed out more and little praise is given for the good.
Stunned by unmoving words. I'm like a prisoner sentenced to jail, released and expected to do worse.
Destruction emerges from my enraged emotions, i wish your words could offer a solution.
I want to be an alchemist and turn things into gold.
It's ironic how I am a creator of words but cant create better words in my critics.
Conversations lead to arguments because i want to be heard.
I'm sick of revolving doors, sick of being slammed by your atrocious comments.
"You have no common sense" you say to me, maybe I just prefer to be in a daydream, my mind drifting away because life is too dull.
Realize that what you say has an effect and that effect can drive somebody or stop them in motion.
Knit Personality Jan 2015
I am a lesser god of verse:
   I wish I were a god much greater.
But heaven knows it would be far worse
      To be a non-creator.

8===>
clever Jan 13
a white picket fence and blue shutters
describes the house i see in my mind.
a quaint and childish fantasy,
with love blind and hands intertwined.
i left my shoes by the door
and i left that door unlocked.
you locked the door behind you
and didn't care enough to have knocked.
i built that house to have you in it,
and i wanted your shoes by the door.
but you don't bother with much of anything
and i can hear your steps against the floor.
then things get a little lonely
and you're the only one sleeping in the bed.
and i'm sitting on the hardwood because, well, actually, i forgot to imagine anything else in this godforsaken house except for that bed because i was too busy thinking of you.
anyways.
things got a little lonely and they hurt a little more.
then i made an effort to run from you,
but my shoes were still by the door.
the pavement probably would've felt worse than the pain i endure from trying to love you. at least, it feels better to think of it that way.
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