First lovers do die.


They die every day.

Time; fire touching clay.


Each recollection,

Fails to bring to vision

Any sort of authentic

Feeling of affection.


That feeling, exactly

That, died long ago.

Dying down slowly, like

Falling flakes of snow.


They’re dead,

But they live on.


Walking to and fro;

Distant shades of

What is no more.


Twenty years,

And maybe more.


First lovers die,

Just like any other

Thing that lives.


Sooner or later,

They have to

Say goodbye.



I want to die a quick death

​I want to die a quick death,
But let the mourning be forever,

Because in death, and death only,

When I exist closest to the core,
I exist now, tomorrow, and forevermore.
Let the nights and days after my passing,

Be a time of remembrance for people that long;
Those that long for a feeling so tender,

Those that long have lost their passion,

Those that long for the flames in them to burn again,

Those that long have lived but have not been alive,

To souls that in hope could find a means to strive.

Let their longing for things past,

Be their light in their search;

Be the night and the stars,

Guiding the sailor through the seas,

Become the calmness in silence,

Which with it lonesomeness refuse to be,

Be the cries of a newborn baby,

Sweet innocence we’ve now lost,

Become the feeling of sadness vanquished,

Sadness that once too conquered glee.
Let their longing become mountains,

one mountain two, then maybe thousands.
Then up these mountains they’d climb,

and declare: “I have conquered myself!”

also space, also time,

I have conquered the world by defeating me.
Let my passing be a gateway for better days;
Times when we’re all, again, humans before ideals,

Times which we greet in old age with a smile,

Times that could never be rewind but cherished so,

The time that we again feel compassion and gratitude,

and we reap the benefits of the seed we’ve sow.
I want to die a quick death,

But right now to be alive is to fight for life.

I will rise up again with all my scars and stand tall,

Struggle for the death that would be the best,

for me, for you, and for us all.


“I am tired.. I’m really tired of life..” 

He squiggles on a piece of paper. Our character is on his third bottle of moonshine now. It’s surprising to see him holding a pen properly. Look at this guy, all wet because he sweats like a pig (but yeah probably because he puked a few times after his second bottle), face is a mess (imagine a disney-star-turned-crackhead messy), and to top it all off he’s butt naked sitting alone in a cum covered apron inside of his kitchen. He’s broke, he doesn’t have friends, his girlfriend left him, his dog’s lost, he’s depressed, and he just finished his third bottle of moonshine.

Our character puts the pen and paper aside on the counter, and lies on the greasy cockroach friendly kitchen floor. He gazes on to the ceiling of his kitchen, there’s nothing there, just a dull white ceiling with a dull square shaped ceiling lamp and a rusty metal hook. That hook comes from a time back when there was a punching-bag hanging there. His eyes still scan the ceiling, in hopes that he could find something interesting to look at. He doesn’t. He curses the metal hook for reminding him that he once was healthy with a charming physique, he curses the lamp for being too bright, he curses the ceiling for being too dull, he curses himself for expecting too much out of a dull ceiling.

“Fucking hook, fucking lamp, fucking ceiling, fucking humane expectations that came out of my fucking thought process, fucking reality..FUCKING REALITY!”

He suddenly screams out in anguish. He doesn’t like his life one bit. Who would? Not me. Maybe you would, but not me. This life’s life is too sad even for me. Our character is now crying. He cries for all the faults he did: that time he pushed a kid out of a swing in elementary, that time he cheated on his first ever girlfriend in high school, that time he voted for Trump, that time he got married to a girl that never loved him, … and the list goes on. He cries and cries until the alcohol takes over and he falls asleep.


Actually no. He died. How? I don’t know. I don’t know nor care. I just want him to die. He’s just dead, like most of us would be in a few years or so. Most of us are already dead inside. But ever wondered why we turned into lifeless shells of our former selves? Think about that before asking me why our character died.

Maybe our character was already devoided of life before his sudden death. If that’s the case, be happy for him. At least he has something going good for him. Wait, no, nothing; he has nothing going on for him– even better.

As I die, Summer ends

This morning the sun rises slowly to meet the sky.
The singing birds freeing their wings from slumber.

As the sun rises clamly, I retreat into my bed.
As birds sing and prance, my mind wanders.

The morning breeze fondle the leaves of trees.
This morning the flowers are like memories.

As the calm wind softly blow, I go.
As the flowers come alive, I die.

I die with the rising sun,
I die with its warmth.

I die and birds sing,
I die in their melody.

I die whilst the wind stream,
I die quietly, without screams.

I die with the scent of blooming hydrangeas,
I die peacefully knowing summer loved me.