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On the Hour I Shall Seek My Final Resting Place

If I were to die tomorrow,
would you tell my story,
and would you tell it well;
tell it truthfully? Or would
there be so little to say,
that only silence could fill
the empty void which makes
up my obituary? I held this life
in my hand on too many
an occasion, preventing
myself from ever cherishing
what I had while it was truly
my own, and by the end
when the final beat exited
this heart of mine, perhaps
it was not death I wished
for, but life instead. The irony
of such circumstance
could never be melted down
into a purposeful existence,
and though death was always
an acceptable choice,
by the end, it may well
have not been my own.
Destiny is inescapable,
as I might soon discover,
and if my life is to be proven
forfeit, might I have
the pleasurable luxury
of knowing I will be remembered,
along with all the rest.

Below is the link to a reading of this poem, along with the reading of ‘Shangri La’, a poem I recently published on this blog:

The Art of Dying Well

Close the lid on this detrimental world,
where a grandiose scheme of insidious measures
blizzards forth across this terrain.
What beautiful corpse
shall I make of me
as to turn the atoms of my flesh
into a state of wholesome elegance?
When death grasps hold
of the fruitless melody
which dictated through chortling teeth
my life, shall I be gifted again
with the opportune prerogative
to endure the mistakes
which brought me to this standstill
if my cadaver is indeed attractive?
When collapsing from where my feet
held firm the decisions
of my circumstantial woes,
shall my memories be of beauty,
so unapologetic and serene,
or the embers of corroded ash
which once comprised the foundations
of my many misplaced principles?

…from where there was never a future

We rape and pillage this once proud Earth
into damnation overload, until the cure to suffering
is contested by limitless excruciation.
The execution of our planet has already been handed down,
a rope, thick like the trunk of a behemoth tree,
strung around the neck of our once wholesome world.
When the execution of the cadaver is later orchestrated,
the exhumed beauty, which had once considered suicide,
will reveal how an attack, over seven billion strong,
struck several violent blows, bringing an end
to substantial happiness. The love which we each shared
for this globe of green and blue, has not beat like a drum
in a time consumed by a longevity greater than any figure
which has come before. But now the alphabet of love
has dried like blood beneath the sun, and as the ground shakes
with the rumbling of rubber and steel,
soldiers flood through our streets, trampling the toys
of children into oblivion towards a fate chosen for them
by men in suits, who shall never do the dying
forced upon the slaves of countries.
Before we are even invited in, we become part
of a war conceived by the hands of others,
and our battle songs are then replaced by stolen symphonies,
sung by broken parliaments corrupted by governmental greed.
On this night, when death walks the Earth,
picking the happiness out from between the teeth
of hapless victims to and fro, I myself
do not wish to see you cry, because you have been waiting
for superman far too long, and he has not returned
after leaving to do the laundry late last night,
and much like all of the other pretenders,
the chance of his coming back rests between negative figures.
If I could hold you to my cheek perhaps we could stop being victims,
to a world that has long forgotten the spirited vengenace
of true love, that guided our hands together once, but sadly no longer.
As the green foliage is swept clean by the ever changing winds,
I will have you know that a future exists beyond our horizon,
leading to a changed existence, and if we may traverse the foothills
which separate us from here and there, a new beginning
may well awake from where there was never one.

Death of Love

Like a wilting flower, the death of a heart
is a slow process, the petals falling like
leaves, until not even one remains. It is
not in my nature to be verbose about my
feelings, but to stand aside in silence,
allowing the passions of other men to
find happiness and comfort in the
pleasures of great women, whom had
originally captured my affections with
but a single glimpse. As the rose bud
perishes into the ground from whence it
was born, my heart falls deeper into
shadow, until not even I can determine
if such a muscle, was really ever there at
all. The emptiness brought about by the
absence of romanticism’s roots, travels
through me like the deathly frozen
hands of a specter, my body becoming
a husk of its former self. The lack of a
woman’s breath upon my lips, her hair
tangled on my cheek, her fingers
wrapped around my own, causes me to
sourly forget what should never be.
Love becomes too difficult to even
comprehend, and as the dawn arises
anew, I must prepare myself with the
uttering of a mantra, in order to
understand that love shall never be
mine. Happiness forgets me, and in its
absence, only sadness remains, and as
I pull a coat tighter around my chest
after having the warmth of the world
forget me too, I must inherently
acknowledge,  that from this day
forth, my choices have inevitably
forbidden any potential owner of the
skeletal remains that make up my heart,
from ever noticing me forevermore.

I Dedicate this to Death

When the darkest hour of the night dominates
the sky I used to see by day, I am left alone to
carry the thoughts of my own self-destruction
in my lonesome head. The corrosion of my
life, which shall be anything but bittersweet,
is launched towards me across the highway of
time, at speeds beyond incalculable, towards a
life I have barely begun to appreciate. Is it too
much to ask for a final kiss to grace these lips
of mine, before the final hour of my bleakest
end is thrown upon my death bed? Would the
lips of the angelic damsel I long so dearly for
even wish to lower her face towards mine, as
I lie unmoving beneath the duvet that will
shelter my damnation, or shall her judgement
be reserved and her lips pulled out of reach,
before the touch of flesh is even aligned?

Upon the bed of death, is not a man entitled
for one final wish before crossing over into
the light that illuminates the world beyond?
Should I not be allowed one final act of
gracefulness before the beauty of the world
is all but barred from me in the hour of my
unpredicted demise? Should this be the end
of daybreak; not the world’s, but mine, what
words will escape the lips of those who knew
me well? Will a wave of tragedy sweep people
from their feet, or shall a smile of satisfaction
be what caresses the moment I was timed out?
Will tears fall from the eyes of many, burdened
by much grief, or shall a slight shake of the
head be the only recognition sent my way?

What will be placed in my eulogy, and would I
like to hear its words, or shall there be none to
speak of, and no obituary or funeral too? Shall
I be so easily forgotten, and become less than an
inaudible whisper in the gathering darkness of
shadows and time, or will I live eternally, and be
granted immortality in hearts and prayers of
those who prevail with life? If these written
words contain a droplet of truth within their
printed ink, then such shall be the last creation
ever conceived by these hands of mine. What
legacy would I need to leave behind within this
work to prove with truthful honesty that I truly
did exist, and am not the result of fictitious
vanity? And if by chance I manage to convince
the hearts of many about the life I did once hold,
let it be known that the last of the romantics
died with me.

Pretentious perhaps is such an ideology, but in a
world which lacks the values of love everlasting,
perhaps I was simply grateful to have my existence
brought to an immediate close? Regardless of the
final thoughts which crawled across my mind, I
was able to feel for but a second what few people
ever find, and maybe, although I never became a
published author and married no celebrity;
although my friends numbered in the few and
those who loved me were almost non-existent;
although I was never rich and had no mansion to
speak of; although healthiness and exercise were
not continuous components of my repertoire,
after 24 years I knew what love truly was; how
many people can claim the same?

Tomorrow I’m going into hospital for another major operation. I wrote this particular piece with regards to how I have no idea what fate has in store for me.
Thank you for reading.

Perilous Waters of Pain

It is pointless for I to love thee,
for you could never have feelings
for the person that I am. Never
could you look to me and think
how you wished to experience
a dinner, with I sitting across
the table for two from where
you are seated.

Never do I enter your dreams
as you lie comfortably
in bed, beside a man who,
in comparison to me, has none
of my many features, because
inside and out, we are not
the same, and never will I hold
anything of interest to your
heart and happiness.

Because of this, I will cry myself
to sleep this night I am without you,
and every night that is to come,
until time itself no longer ticks,
for although the realist in me
knows how pointless my pain
surely is, and how it shall go
unnoticed forevermore,
the romantic in me still holds
onto the belief that a destiny
together awaits us on the
other side of tomorrow.

So let it be writ that I can wait no
longer for my wanted paramour
to fall into these arms of mine,
and although the dark clouds
of a mighty depression are
brewing beyond my window,
with the torrential rain of
painted death preparing
to serenade my soul, I will
not allow the plan I had once
considered to become the
fate that shall greet me next

Once there was an unhappy
time when I would have
contemplated shoving a blade
through my jugular and
expelling the water from within;
such would have been excruciating,
but afterwards, all I would have felt
is shock before falling into a deep,
dark coma, from which I would
never awake nor see daylight

I live by myself, and I realise,
that no one would have
found my body, until I was
nothing more than a fleshy
heap of compost gathering
flies upon the surface of what
was once clean carpet.

But I know that this fate would
never lead to the woman that I
love the most, and although you
may not love me tomorrow,
nor any day that comes
thereafter, I will love thee until
I find another amazing woman
who steals my heart away, who
I hope will not already have
her love belonging to another.
Until that day does arrive, I will
love you, and that for me is
good enough at this very moment.

A Murderer Known as Love

If love is a battlefield,
then I have been caught
in a war torn country,
with regret as my companion.
I had a chance to find
happiness, and I had another
not too long ago,
and yet I still have hopes
that the one I truly love
will see for who I am
and say ‘I want you,
I love you, I have been
waiting tirelessly for you
my whole life; marry me,
would you, you are all
I have been searching for,
and together we shall
never be apart no more.
Let loneliness be abandoned
in these arms of mine
as you hold me to your heart
so I may hear the beat
that I inspired,
for without me you are flotsam,
and without you I am
not myself, but combined
we are everything we need
to see this journey through,
and never shall we be without
the other.’ But this is but
a dream, and dreams, they
do not come true except
in fairy tales, which this
is not, because the gloom
of this here world
lingers upon my shoulders.
Many live for love, so
I doubt it could be
surprising if one were to die
for such an emotion too.
When an unknown man
walks in with a shotgun,
I gladly throw my arms out,
outstretched at my side
as though I am to be crucified,
and I cry for him to slay me,
but no, he shoots himself
instead. It seems that love
has claimed yet another victim,
and it be ironic that an emotion
of such happiness is responsible
for so much death.
There is barely enough left
to describe the stranger
that lies upon the ground;
one second he was alive,
the next he was no longer,
and has become yet
another faceless man in a crowd
of aching hearts, and no matter
how hard I screamed, never
would he have pulled
the trigger with the barrells
aimed down at me.
I want death so badly,
but I do not want to commit
the act myself no more,
for I am terrified my heart
will cramp up and my body
will stutter, and that will
be the start of yet another
colossal failure. The only
way to guarantee success
is at the hand of another;
but what hand would happily
do what I feel must be done?
But maybe I am scared
of death, and have mistaken
cowardice for absolution,
and if this be the case
I needn’t live with such ignorance,
so please, someone smarter
than I notify me,
so I may die with my intellect
intact before I reach my end.

The Bitter Aftertaste of Talking to Myself

If I were to meet myself
on this here night,
what would I say to me?
What name would I
address myself as
when words are
eventually exchanged?
Would I be glad
to meet the man I am
or would I pitifully sigh
with gusto great
and laugh at my inadequacy?

If I do not feel love
for myself now
I know I shall not tomorrow
when the chance encounter
does arrive, and perhaps
I will blow myself off
instead for a night
with a fine young lady.

My happiness does not
concern me, and it shall not
when I do arrive
for our interview together,
because meeting me
will bring great pains
from which no antidote
could be applied,
and that bandage shall not cover
the hindering hole
which ruptures
my heart of madness.

If only I could
intervene in my life
and bring about
peaceful mindedness,
for depression drips
across my forehead
and I will only
make it greater,
as I stand in the shadow
of my current self
and wonder where life
went hopelessly wrong.

I may shake my head
and not bother
with a response
for that train
already did depart,
and instead myself
will be ignored
and my definition of normality
shall be returned
when I eventually do disappear,
like I wish I could from me,
because I need a vacation
from being the man
inside this fleshy mannequin,
for if I am living
my so called life to its fullest,
another glass I certainly do not want.

I am not my hero,
nor will I ever be,
and when my voice
is but a whisper
in the gathering darkness of time,
perhaps I will soon
be put to peace
when life comes to its bitter,
inevitable end.

I am no one, I am me

Ain’t that title truthful
when articulating
the nothingness
of my life
within the confines
of the room
that I here occupy.

For although I am alone,
I am the father of despair;
I am death incarnate,
and I have
happily come for me.

Unbeknownst is this written woe
upon the brittle page,
as drown within myself I do
inside the windowless room,
which robs me of my oxygen
within a Hell
of my own creation.

I have made my bed
that is cluttered with nails
and nightmarish images,
as all positivity is denied
of its existence.

Hatred and loathing
greet me to no end,
with a dash of disappointment
and unending disgust
accompanying the feelings
of nefarious intent.

These hardened feelings
of exponential pain
engulf my soul
in an ocean of glassy monsters
that my reflection postulates,
without which
shall grant me the option
of becoming
the man I ought to be.

I long to wish away
these feelings,
but fruition will never be granted
upon the hope
that springs forth from my chest.

Although there is an end in sight
from such unrelenting horror
of the mind,
it feels further away
than what it truly is.
This fate reveals itself
once reality steps out
from beyond the curtain
and bites down hard
upon my aching heart.

The longer I reside
within this gruesome environment,
the more I become content
with an alternate resolution
to escape from my unhappiness.

But this cure
is one I cannot accept,
however, what is it I can do
when I have given up
on life itself,
and worse, life,
has given up on me.


Insufferable Decay

This poem is so dark, you’ll need a torch
to read it; a flicker of fire in
a lightning strike to illuminate the
dark passageways that branch forth from the page.
In a country of fertile happiness,
where the spoils of luck and understanding
are the undying wealth of the people,
who am I to take such an emotion
away from them and replace it with my
own? If the destiny of the many
is to live a life filled with purpose and
solidarity, I for one do not
represent the purveyance of peace and
equality, but of emotional
disdain and decadence from which there is
no escape available to be found.
Although I have discussed these feelings with
those of a ‘professional’ nature
who are supposed to help thee in times of
turmoil and distress, never was a cure
granted to me on a silver platter.
I was given as much acknowledgement
as a pariah, and thus my pain has
grown and grown until it is all I have
become. Lessons are not what are learned for
actions speak much louder, and I have heard
the words of interlopers, and they sound
the same as me. The system is fraught with
problems, but none are able to be solved.
There are no noble heroes in the world
I reside in, there is only me, and
when a man is imprisoned with nothing
else but himself for company, he is
left as empty as a desert wasteland,
and believe me when I say I am a
prisoner – and the loneliness is my
jail cell. Although this prison is without
bars, freedom is not necessarily
granted just by walking out, for where is
one to turn, when dead ends are everywhere?
I have never felt more alone than I
do right now in this very moment as
I write these many words, for I’m forced to
suffer the insufferable decay
of my own humanity keeping me
company until I die. Everyone
has someone it would seem; someone to hug,
to kiss, to love; everyone but me. I
made peace with my many demons a long
time ago, and I became quite content
with the knowledge that I would never find
myself romantic companionship, and
then she happened to walk into my life,
and all of a sudden everything changed.
I came to hope that perhaps I was not
doomed to spend my life alone, but as great
as that hope was, it was nothing more than
a lie of omission, false like Santa
Claus, for she left me, just like everyone
else, and so I was inevitably
dragged back, all the way into the doldrums
depths. With these words written, there is nothing
else for me to do but dry the liquid
that streams forth from my eyes with a tissue
and hope for better days. Have you ever
felt so lonely, that even loneliness
didn’t dare associate with you? Have
you ever felt so lonely you wanted
to kill yourself just to end it all; just
so you could have company, even if
that companion was your own blood lying
beside you rather than inside you? My
musings are that of a broken man, cursed
by loneliness and grief, and because of
this reason I am going to murder
myself today, and I’ll gladly serve my
prison sentence for this crime. This prison
is unlike the one I lived within for
so long now, and is instead alternate
in nature; hypothetical to be
exact, for the dead do not grieve over
the crimes of the living, even if that
is all I care for right now. I cannot
think of another option to erase
the loneliness from my heart. I’m sorry
for my lack of strength, but I cannot stand
the pain, and so must permanently leave.