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May 11, 2018

And again, a day squandered,

Drugs to sleep, at midday.

And yet, there was much to do,

It will be for tomorrow ….


I changed my lifestyle,

I lost much: friends, etc.

But ‘friends’ are infinite,

Six, seven billion, enemies.


Some oppose my compassion,

Some laugh. I can but weep.

Their taste buds are treated well,

Their innards suffer atrophy.


I smile, sadly, we could say,

They bring on disease, these beasts.

But not fast enough. Alas,

But occasionally, and then yes: I smile.


Take my hand, a simple gesture,

There’s no one to take my hand.

My hair clogs the drain pipes,

Excepting days that I do not step out.


Rhyming slang. She doesn’t rhyme,

You lie, and it’s unnecessary.

She’s something without false platitudes,

She came out of the blue, as we do.


Take my book!’ They laugh,

They wish her luck. She’s no one.

This week brings forth major poets,

One review: all that could be hoped.


Out of touch. Out of work,

They’re out of jobs there,

At the unemployment office,

And she needs to feed babes.


The babes need only her,

They won’t see her a final time.

They’ll hear the cacophony and chaos,

They’ll remain behind a closed door.


Locked up tight, they are and were,

The gloom is depressive. The sun ….

It does nothing for my humour,

And I’m always of good spirits.

Despite the endless anxiety,

Manifesting as depression.

Five floors up. I look down,

All seems small. Me on the sidewalk.

Like a baby blue bird, become nothing,

All’s now left for tomorrow.

Tomorrow, a long way off. A dread,

And tomorrow, I’ll live a death.


Days as death. Every hour slept, death,

Come, interrupt doctor ….

Maybe he’ll hold my hand, but no,

Hence, with a lack of affection, I die.


She was ripped from life like a bird,

A small bird on the sidewalk.

It twitches once, twice, then no more,

These images haunt me. The death ….


Some weep at death and then kill,

For life is only death and a killing field.

There’s no time for ‘joyous’,

Neither the word nor the sentiment.


Sentience. The bird fell from on high,

The pavement was hard below.

But, had I caught him ….

His mother would have rejected him.

Death all the same. The death of an orphan,

No gravestones in orphanages.

No one cares for the death,

The death of nobodies,

Belonging to nobody,

An empty bed, for countless orphans.

Orphan bluebirds, lying dead, crushed,

What could mother have done?

A sturdy nest, with no holes,

Holes from where little ones fall,

From on high, several floors,

Some may say the heavens.

The bird is an angel,

It represents an angel.

Angels face sad ends,

Crushed on pavements, trod on.

They’ve no wings: they only fall,

The heavens are far. Will I know them?


The hummingbirds rejoice,

One bluebird less. Less rivalry.

We adore bluebirds, hummingbirds,

Some birds we loathe: those with raven hair.

We rejoice the passing of raven haired delights,

Falling from nests on high, we rejoice.

Long haired, feathered hair …. black,

Dark as the night, the dark night sky.


And so we remember, we recall,

The pathetic twitching of a baby bird.

Does mother bird weep?

One less mouth to feed.


Baby bird, never learned to fly,

So he falls, he falls quick.

Mother would have flown high,

Baby had no other choice.


The bluebird, graceful and all,

This is when grown, when learned.

Once having learnt the gift of flight,

Mother will proudly farewell her offspring.

Her offspring that she taught,

Hummingbird also, graceful in flight.

Chirping, singing, all the way home,

But not while falling from great heights.


Shall I stumble from on high?

Shall I tumble, to lie flat?

Or did mother guide me well?

Only the future knows my fate.


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