Who could have guessed

this poem would have been about death?

My life has been all about death

despite a single utermost definitive borderline quaking occurance

this tragedy has been one more way

for expression and understanding 

beyond most comprehending 

perplexed and weary

here it goes, all of my theory.


8 years ago

I had my first snow

It was beautiful at first glance

until I felt its piercing stance against my skin

It was hard to miss, like the feeling of your very first kiss

The sweet glistening packs of white

were ever so bright

almost as bright as what is to come, when there is nowhere else to run.

Cold and frosted, yellow and blue, white and gold

is this not the same snow that we have around the world?

Why does no one understand the kinds of pain we bear?

Maybe because we can't even begin to share?

The fruitile snows. 

                              As beautiful and desolate as the care of obese stares.


6 years ago I had my first love

She was as sleazy as she was deceptive

but I was too young to be a detective.  

Oh, did I think she was quite the site

6 feet tall and full of fight

little did I know or care of how much she tore

the things in life I loved and wanted evermore

away and apart, further and further away from my heart. 

Divorce and fights had previously taken hold,

separating my mind from what is true

"I am the one that can fix all of that and more"

said the liar, 

for she had cheated on me behind heavens gates, 

then tried to fill my heart with hate

                                                 hate for my mom, hate for my dad, yet sole to the contrary

the only hate I had was in her filthy sad grin

not once had I given my body, yet all she could do was violate me

beyond what one can ever relate.

What was once sweet turned sour as we climbed that dirty ladder,

up and up we went, until one day I fell off of a hint

I had moved away, never to see her light in my day, 

it was finished.  

                        But my life was just starting over.


First, we start with a question

What is ones story of life, without a bit of strife?

But where is the glory of a story, without lifes greatest quarry?


6 years ago I had discovered true meaning

or so I had thought, for who could have ever taught what I had thought?

True friends filled my atmosphere

all without bringing me a single tear.

Who could forget the ways of old, when all they did was bring happiness and woe.

Tis ye but a man on the doorstep, said the main wearing a v-neck.

the man wearing the main gain of modern stain 

vain was he who could name his own grain, yet bear those who he not take in pain.

6 years ago I said

"Why should my life be any better wed to my own dread?"

But then it happened

                                  misery had no true meaning until I bore the fruitile veggies

of lifes biggest mysteries.

To the hospital I went, away from lifes bent fortune of gwent


Life decided I was the one to catch the rudely squawking fife

Down I went, stricken with hells bent concoction 

deformities and diseases, all but a breeze on this fellas knees

The deformitiy was over, my years of pain now over my shoulder

But with the ashes of the old is born to something of new

through the equipment I went, cold and scared like the loser of last years poker

out I came, ready and eager to see the results of years of study and trained pain.

Never was I ready for the speal that came to me, the one and only man of steel.  

A man of steel ready to peel.  What did I do to deserve the cold hard hatred 

that life seems to so endlessly toss at those most weary patrons?

Colitis and sacroiliitis, chrones and weary bones, 

what else could a 16 year old want, than the limitations of a 60 year old sailor knot?

It was rare

rare and ready to tear down the walls I so proudly built

between me and heavens guilt.  

Yet did I once complain, 

                                        about my never ending train of pain?

no, for who else would be there to see my constrain?

This was the death of my seeming bright snow.

The death of my hope.  The death of life.  My life.  

My life.


Breath.  Take a breath.

Look around, what do I see, only the shell of a man that used to be.

Nothing more, nothing less, just a husk of a hollow pest.  

My life was miserable, but wasn't every one elses?

Life went on.

                     Everything moved on.

                                                         It always does. 

Or does it?


My strife is one sad story of many

Too many to bury under the glorified hill of statutes lost

Shiny and new, old and dusty,

freakishly huge, petite and dark,

What is any of it for?




Understanding is the answer.  

Simple, yet broad.  

That is for you to discover.

Look under your covers, 

under your bed, 

under your head.  

Soon enough you may see

what it truly means to be, 

and what it means to see.

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world


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