There's still food on her plateShe hasn't eaten in daysHer eyes are tiredShe hasn't slept in weeksHer arms are coveredShe hasn't shown them for monthsHer body is coldShe's been dead for years
I sit here, typing, without a planBecause thoughts and feelings have been piling up inside the confines of my mind.Today, I listened to a woman speak about her child,Lost at 17 to the icy grips of death.One wrong move and her life was not spared.Later, I asked someone who knew her what she was like."Kid was a mess," she said. "Drugs just made it worse."I went home thinking how precarious life isAnd about how many things I would miss,Were I to die today.Being at the brink of submitting myself before,A new perspective is appreciated.I can look up at the sky and think about how I'll miss it,And not wonder if it's the last time I'll walk under it.I'd miss hearing people laugh.
I am lostFloundering in uncharted watersOr perhaps they have been charted;I know I've been here beforeWatching someone else's lips formThe exact same words.I know what I've done wrong.I know I have yet to fix it.But what I don't knowIs how.How do I fix this brokenHead of mine,This broken soul of mine,This broken mind of mine.
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.