I don’t ask for much,
I really don’t
But know I ask that you don’t die on me,

Because I haven’t spent my life or my words
Making you worry about me,
So please don’t make me worry about you,

It wouldn’t be fair if I go on and worry about you,

Because if I do,
Then I would have failed you,
I would have let you down,

So please don’t die on me today.

I'm way too late to play here, but this is Stan's cold write and my lifeless poem.

The sweet deceptions.
These lies to my ears.
They tear me open.
And feed my tears.

The mask.
Covered disguise.
Have been the sweet tooth truth. Not the bitter lies.

The vile acidic reflection.
As I peer into the reflected agony. The big or little correction.
Changed the way my mind prospers.

The mortal realization.
The castles of my own failure.
I am my own creation.
While I am also my own deflation.

I am not the round a bout guy.
The bend over and pick it up where it used to lye.

Return to me, oh silent one,
dear friend of yester-year
Proclaim in me
of what you see
and all we've learned to fear

Originally legitimated reasons
of concern
quickly turn into more profound statements
of deterioration learned

Mental stability needs constant repair
causes of disappearing
and fearing
now finally shared

The mist hung low, so low that mountains grew
high up in my imagination,
they towered into the sky
and threw their aura far,

I caught a glimpse of snow-white tracts,
of deep dark treed ravines, of balanced boulders,
blossom filled meadows, its slopes diminished
where the cataract, cascades of water,
danced between in cracks of velvet turf,

You are an artist.
You effortlessly sing a song of a new life,
each verse sounding clearer than the last
until you reach the closing chorus
without mentioning my name.

You eloquently tell a story
laced with characters I'll never know.
Swiftly moving from one chapter to the next
with the happy ending you've always wanted.

You paint a picture of the future,
colorful and bright,
but no matter how hard you try,
even your expert hands
can't find a way to fit me in.

They hated you for your truth,
but you prevailed my dearest
friend.

Though you left too suddenly,
too soon to say goodbye,
and no one could say
"We are sorry for having misjudged
you, but we were blinded by your light."

I know that as long as even one person
stays alive and tastes the oranges growing
from your ashes, that your story will never
die.
Not in the poetry
not in the music,
not in the art
you left
behind, waiting.

Waiting. Wanting to be heard.

Put me in a wooded box, under an
Ancient tree I will go far on top of a hill
On my grave place some rocks and stones
I do not need a concrete vault nor a polished
Marble head stone or tears to fall close your eyes
And think of me walking beside you
Picking up pennies, rocks and feathers as I go

If at a later date you should visit my grave
Add one more rock to the pile that's been made
A nosegay of wild flowers would be ok but
Give to the living the best bouquets

Blame Who

Long time there has been no storming from you
but such an outcome of growing population
and
damning economy
no one can blame,
you nor me/I
but those who produce a family
when they could afford none.
why should you or I feel blameworthy,
for all those who had
no common sense…

Reality is rattling;
forcing fondness and frustration
fo meet and mix,
a medley of memories
that doesn’t taste good
coming back up.
Months spent swallowing
prose and poetry
refusing to remember
aching to express
but unwilling
to see sorrow and smiles
cruelly combined.