Tag: death

#PoeticAnswers 77 – When Will I Be Better?

I am sick,
I am sick of being sick.
It’s been six or seven years of
Things being in a constant state of wrong
With my brain and my body and
Being used as a punching bag by bugs and infections,
Leaving bruises, scars and lesions and being beaten
Black, blue and bloody by my immune system
And I am sick of it.

I spent seventeen years in education
Yet my blood, brain and urine
Have been through more tests than me.
And they don’t get it easy because
There’s no pass or fail,
Just sets of numbers I don’t understand
And positives that can have negative connotations
And negatives which could be the best thing for me.

I’ve spent the last five years,
Going in and out of doctors and hospitals
Leaving barely enough time for the revolving doors to spin,
Travelling between wards and beds like
Hotel rooms on the worst overnight stay of my life,
Never staying still long enough to sleep
Or see the latest test result.

I’m treated like a science experiment,
Laid bare for doctors and nurses to test
Both myself and themselves.
I feel like a broken vending machine,
With pills being poured into my mouth
Like pound coins of imprecision
By professionals who can only pray for
The right result.

I’ve spent far too long
Being a rebel crying out for change
Being told that my version of better isn’t the best thing for me,
I’m sick of waiting for eventually and tomorrow and the next day,
I’m sick of wasting my life away in
A busy hospital terminal, waiting for my
Flight number to be up.

Question from my good friend, Courtney.

#PoeticAnswers 76 – Can You Describe The Most Peaceful Moment You Ever Experienced?

It was the calm after a
Torrential downpour of depression
Which washed away my sensibilities.

It was after the storm in my head
Subsided into the choked whispers
Of voices who would leave me high and dry.

Nothing leading up to the moment was peaceful,
My body and brain fighting tooth and nail,
Fighting my will to not fight anymore,
My breath becoming a shallow imitation and
Turning into a desperate rasp,
My pulse frenetic and thrashing like a shark in a cage
Filled with a rage that fills it with a desire to survive.

Until the noose buckled.
And I crashed down with the weight
Of myself and the world
In slow motion.
A dark euphoria of
Pins and needles crawling like
Electric insects through my veins,
Tingling and tearing through my body.
My ears ringing like
The the sound of a thousand flatlines,
Loud enough to drown out the world.

In this moment,
There was no guiding light,
There was no distraction.
Just calm,
Just darkness,
Just perfect quiet.
Just reminders that
I am alive.

Question from Delaney A. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 74 – What Does A Hurricane Sound Like?

Like a tidal wave against a stone wall and the shatter of glass,

Unheard prayers on rooftops and in churches and in desperation.

The roar of crumbling concrete as it dissolves to dust.

The crying of parents of lost, dead or dying children.

Trees being ripped apart like pieces of paper and then engulfed in flame.

The shriek of a baby as she starves and doesn’t know why or who to blame.

Like an army of ghosts with nothing left.

And then nothing.

Deafening nothing.

In a place where the sea meets the tears of disaffected dead
In a wasteland of rubble and scrap metal where the earth and the air is still.

And no one cries for help because they lost their voices to panic and pain.
Just the gentle lapping of waves of polluted water and rain.

Giving way to nothing

Hundreds of thousands of people are currently affected by Hurricane Irma and the aftermath. Please, if you can, support these people and the charities that are working to help these people. For more information on how you can help, click here for a list of the charity organisations that you can donate to and support.

 

#PoeticAnswers 69 – Will I?

I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though everything is gone
And I’m left with just mistakes and chronic emptiness.
Even though I’ve sold my soul and guitar
For the sake of pipe dreams and smoke and mirrors.

I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though I’ve wound up alone
Except for the ghosts of the voicemail machine.
Even though my life has been repossessed
And I’m now in receipt of income and life support.

I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though my skin is so weak and discoloured
That I can’t recognise my own ethnicity.
Even though I’m sweating ice cold bullets
And my eyes are leaking like warm battery acid.

I won’t lose my dignity,
Even though I’m bound to this hospital bed
Like I’m in an unpayable life debt.
Even though I can’t hold my head high
But I know I can rely on this mountain of pillows to do it for me.

I won’t lose my dignity.
I’ve already lost so much.
I’ve lost my money.
I’ve lost my friends.
I’ve lost my mind.
I’ve lost my weight.
I’ve lost myself.
I’ve lost my will to be an addict.

I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though my grip
Is barely strong enough to hold a needle
Even though I’m here by force,
It’s only because I’ve forced myself to do this.

I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though I probably could or should
Because it would just make sense.

I won’t lose my dignity.
Because I won’t let it go.
Because I refuse to lose the one thing that’s keeping me strong.

Today’s question comes from Jonathan Larson’s ‘RENT’

#PoeticAnswers 65 – Were The Weeping Angels Just Tired?

Hiding eyes,
Always open,
Never sleeping,
Eyes wide open,
Behind open hands,
They are always open,
Their eyes, their jaws, their minds,
Always thinking, plotting, manipulating,
Waiting for you to fail and your eyes to fall,
Waiting across the oceans of time, forever.

Always hungry,
Always thirsting,
Always waiting to
Kill you with kindness.
Or the closest thing to it.
There are worse ways to die
Than to live your life out of sync.
Live your life out of time until your time runs dry
No guns, no blood, no heartbreak.
Just blink.

They don’t sleep,
They don’t need to,
They’ve been resting
Since the dawn of their time.
Going from being quantum locked
In one place until you break your gaze,
Then they become stepping stones in a dark room,
The threat in the night, in the darkness, following and stalking,
Treading the shadows of your life for all of your time so, if anything,

They were just tired of waiting.

Question from Megan C. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 45 – Do You Think Snails Are Horrified by Hermit Crabs?

I was honestly suprised to discover
That this is a genuine thing.
I think it’s easy to forget that
The circle of life extends to those
Beneath the waves,
Where the seaweed is greener
And aquatic creatures roam and take control.

A humble sea snail,
A quiet, reserved soul
Gently and slowly meanders among
The coral and sponges.
He says hello to his friends,
And all creatures are his friends
Because he has no anemones.

But despite all his friends,
He is often alone
When he retreats into his home
There is no room for company
So he leaves himself exposed.
Unsuspecting and trusting,
Taking life at his own pace.

One day he passed away.
A clownfish suggested that
“It was his tide”.
The pun went unappreciated.
All the sea creatures went to his “fineral”.
Apart from the clownfish.
They weren’t allowed due to inappropriate humor.

But it was a beautiful ceremony,
Angelfish sang a heavenly requiem.
They say the sea is so salty
Because of the tears of fish at funerals for snails.
This is probably not the case,
But a funeral is not the time to argue semantics.
He fell out his shell and was buried in the reef.

A few days later,
A homeless hermit crab was
Gently and slowly meandering among
The coral and sponges.
No friends, no anemones,
Perfectly cold and alone.
Until he saw sad, empty shell.

He knocked once, and then twice
Thought to himself
“This shell looks nice”
He retreated inside,
It wasn’t too big,
But this could be home.
He slept on the seabed, safe and warm.

But then uproar commenced.
The sea creatures were incensed
By a mighty rage for their fallen comrade.
“This shell isn’t yours!”
A voice cried,
“How can you be so shellfish?”
Everyone turned to the clownfish and stared in disgust.

But then the waters turned still,
A voice came from the reef,
Quiet and reserved,
It was beyond belief,
The ghost of the snail said, “We’ll I’ll be damned”
“Friends, don’t be cruel to this poor, little crab,
“Did I teach you nothing in my time on the sand?”

“I’m now one with the waves and don’t need my home,
This crab’s just like me, don’t let him feel alone
Sweet little crab, if you come out of your shell,
You’ll become friends with these fishfolk,
They really are swell!”
The sea creatures felt ashamed and extended their fins,
The old snail was right, they let the crab in.

The ghost fell away into silence
And the sea came alive.
Some wondered why the ghost of the snail
Chose to speak in rhyme because it wasn’t like him,
But they mostly came together to welcome
The lonely hermit crab,
Realising that the real horror is prejudice.

The correct term for this is commensalism
I like to think of it as a
Bizarre ritual of inheritance
And a symbol of hope and new life
On the ocean floor.
This means the snail is not horrified but accepting of change,
And we can all learn from the sea creatures.

Apart from the clownfish.
They’re just inappropriate and insensitive.

Question from Taylor D. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 19 – Why Are The Selfless So Easily Forgotten?

They didn’t do it for them,
Because it was never about them.

They didn’t do it for the fame,
Because it was always just a job.

They didn’t do it for the glory,
Because there was no glory to be had.

They didn’t do it for a reward,
Because there was nothing to win.

They didn’t do it for the cause,
Because causality and casualty were too close together.

They did it because they had to,
Because they gave their life to something else.

They did it for us,
Because that’s what they were told to believe.

They did it for nothing,
And nothing accepted them because no one else would.

Question from Briar R. from Facebook.

#PoeticAnswers 17 – If Someone Talked About You The Way You Talked About Yourself, Would You Be Their Friend?

I would be their friend.
I’m drawn to toxicity like
A heroin addicted moth to the flame under the spoon.
There’s so much that I shouldn’t want
But do out of a warped sense of necessity.

If they would be my friend
I wouldn’t need to be harsh on myself.
I could finally cut myself out of my life.
Cast off the shadows of self-doubt
Be the light of my own life.

But I wouldn’t.
Because happiness has never felt real to me.
I would always need someone to drag me down to reality,
Keep me rooted and unsupported,
Leaving me a weeping willow,
Wilted and hanging.

I’ve never spoken highly of myself,
I have no reason to because
I know myself like the back of my hand,
I know the story behind each and every
Unsightly scar, broken knuckle and ugly bruise.

I am the caesarean scar on my stomach,
Cutting away at myself,
Hoping for a new life
But nothing comes.

I am the bruise on the world,
Ugly and unwanted,
Trying to conceal but
Becoming more obvious.

Clumsy, broken, autistic,
Mediocre, lazy, alcoholic,
The monster in the basement,
The monster in the closet,
Could never own up to herself
Could never own up to his mistakes,
The teenage junkie who never grew up.

 

Question from Georgia B. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 15: Are You Being Cremated or Buried?

Jesus H. Christ,
You know how to pick your moments.
I wish I could say that
I haven’t given it much thought,
But for thirteen years
It was all I could think about.

Don’t complain at me for being morbid,
You brought the subject up.
It might take me a while to get to the answer,
But I’m hoping it’ll take a while for it happen
So let’s take a moment as I
Wax lyrical about the great inevitable.

So for music,
Have the organist play
“Phantom of the Opera” and “Whiter Shade of Pale”.
I cannot abide “Abide With Me”
I may believe in reincarnation,
But damnit I will circumvent my own cycle to haunt you.

Please don’t tell stories of what I did during life,
There’s a whole lot I don’t intend to tell my husband or wife.
No prayers and no sermons, avoid all religion,
Just avoid any talking at all,
I don’t want to take up your time,
You’ve got shit to do.

And when they drop me in the flames,
Use Doritos for kindling,
Chilli Heatwave not Nacho Cheese.
You’ve got to have standards afterall.
Play the Countdown theme as the flames take me,
Never let anyone say I never had whimsy.

If you must have a wake,
No booze, because I’m a dick.
And fill a pinata with bees.
Be happy but not too happy.
Play 90s dance anthems and
Rave on my grave.

And while all this is happening,
I’ll get to be alone.
Because while they’ve been
Crying and reflecting,
And going insane with my shitty choices,
I’ll be secretly being buried at sea.

Question overheard on a bus. People are weird.