Poems about dying

My redemptive acts float
Above recognition.
They are rooted in desire,
And need, and love.
They are impossible to eulogize
Because they are as common as
Shrugs or affirmations
Delivered by my timid eyes.

You all know these acts.
You have no life without them.
A baby knows them soon as he, or she,
Grabs teddy, and bites
His soft brown nose.
They are nothing moments.
They are valueless commodities
Disregarded on the markets
Of pride and sentiment.
They give no lessons.
They're just dumb and true
And they fear the advance of death
No more than boulders fear
The waters of a lake.

During a good long life you get
About a thousand or so such moments.
In one of those brief, tragic lives
You get maybe a hundred,
Maybe even less. But of course,
Tabulating them near or at the end
Is about as smart and useful
As shoveling that lake.

They tell me that I am,
Just like you, the way a grackle
Is just like a grackle, or a lion cub
Is just like all other lion cubs.
They tell me, that yes, life is pretty cool,
And that I will miss it,
And I will miss you.

I'm fresh out of emotions; I'm dying inside
Like something crawled through by pores, through my veins, and it died
I'm weak and I'm withering; I'm dead and I'm cold
I'm falling apart, rusting, growing mold
I'm sick and pathetic and bitter and detached
There's an itch inside of me that can never be scratched
I'm broken and hurting-- Far beyond repair
I'm dying inside
*But I really don't care

Coughing like a cold start
Wheezing like a bag
Spitting through the back door
Have another fag
Doing the dying thing

Filling up an ash-tray
Feeding a fat face
Drinking cans of lager
Getting in a state
Doing the dying thing

Reading shitty papers
Tits and bingo cards
Have another lager
Another pound of lard
Doing the dying thing

Sitting watching game shows
Rattling paper bags
Looking bored and farting
How the sofa sags
Doing the dying thing

Working for a bastard
For very little pay
Yes boss and no boss
For eight hours a day
Doing the dying thing

Safely empty headed
Dull of thought and eye
Ignorant and vacant
There are many ways to die
Doing the dying thing

By Phil Roberts

I'm standing on the blade, bleeding.
While i'm watching you on the stage, dancing.

Thy breathing is about to cease. Thy guru hath set thee face to face before with the Clear Light; and now thou art about to experience it in its Reality... wherein all things are like the void and cloudless sky, and the naked, spotless intellect is like unto a transparent vacuum without circumference or centre

Down, down, down the deep,
As i cry and weep.
But nothing could mend this,
Heart, that beats so old and weary.

The knife, a dreadful sharp,
Creeps into my lonesome heart.

Fruitless, feeling worthless, looking towards religion for a purpose. Lost and afraid, wanting so badly to be remade. I've been taken over, empty third person view, yeah it's like I'm an aliens host. Possessed by this oppressive world, not to be cliche but I feel like a victim and this world is a vindictive vandal. Love and hatred, peace like a dove chocked out by this disease called humanity. Sorrow for tomorrow, misery for today, screw Annie man, there is no sun coming up any day for me; for every day is gray. Feel so betrayed, life has gone astray, what once was bright is beginning to fade. Coast to coast, while finical eyes search for meaningless materials, I search for answers and finding this so called Holy Ghost.

Life is no more than a rigged scandal, that fools think they can fool or handle it. There is nothing to lose, except everything; how can one leap with faith when their neck is tied by a noose. What ever happened to dignity? What ever happened to honesty? Tell me where I can find your valour or vanity? Crazy that this is what we deem as sanity, pride collapsing on us as if it were gravity. Cross the sky, eye for an eye, so blinded and entitled; thinking we deserve an answer for why we are here. Lost we have become, every heart beats it's final beat, everyone will strum their final strum. At what cost will we test the bounds? At what point point did we stop thinking outside the box? Love & suicide, passion and ignorance, welcome to hell this will be your final residence. Breathe or heave when you start to realize you would not be than to be.

Sorry if my words bring gloom instead of glee, but that's just how I sometimes be. I want to be a better man, but for the time I'll keep on being a nothing man. Isn't it something? I don't really think so! It stinks, I hate being that low, truth is life doesn't give out hand outs. Oh I'm still alive, pretending life is fine, no heroes here, so don't think I'll put my life on the line. Love or hate me, decorate me or eat me, not a Barbie girl, so in other words you can't screw with me. Alone, need to phone home like E. T, I got no self esteem, stay up late watching B. E. T. How do I fight off this pain, how can I erase the lie's that penetrate my membrane. How can I fight off what was done, how do I keep myself from blowing brains out with a gun. So far gone, got my head up into the clouds. Smoke and mirrors, wondering how I can conquer my insecurities and fears. So far down, so please console with me, before I jump off the ledge and plummet to the ground.

On search for immortality, because I'm scarred to die, the thought sometimes makes me cry. The life in my shoes can fit many, some crops wilt where others thrive abundantly and produce plenty. I look on the other side of that fence, and long for that same type of satisfaction. Jealous, over-zealous, longing for happiness that left me to die in my already deep grave. Oh hope, is such a pitiful fatal attraction, feeding my inner demons, eternally wandering this mortal dominion. Life and times of a dying man. How time flies by so quickly. How times do change. What was deemed acceptable is now deemed inappropriate or inhumane. Rights and equality, gay pride, and wearing less and less clothes by the minute. If you ask me if your wearing that little amount of clothes you might as well wear none at all. Once upon a time in a cultured simple world, you were born, got married at twenty, and had kids, then one day you fall down and never get up.

Unless your like me, just a stubborn old crotchety fart. Haha, I can laugh at it now. When I was a young hip to be square scallywag that thrived to do nothing but misbehave. Oh those were the good times. No care in the world. Thinking that we would never get this old. Making fun of the ones who were. How the pendulum has shifted. How the ones who are left no longer laugh. As the heart monitor beeps ever so softly. As our breathing becomes non-existent. As the weight of the world shuts our eyes tight. Till there is nothing but silence and tears of family members. Some don't have that luxury. Some die alone. With no one to cry for them. It's so sad; really. Like I'm not the nicest most approachable guy but at least I know what's left of my family will be there for me. Nothing more I could ask for or even deserve. This is tale of a dying man. See you on the other side. Wherever that may be. But for now I say goodbye, and thank you, for taking time to read my story.

Time goes on,
And things change.
Feelings grow,
And feelings fade.

The rose in bloom,
Is dying now.
He's praying they'll make it,
Some way, some how.

Time goes on,
She's fading away.
He's longing for words,
He wishes she would say.

His eyes are faded,
The shine disappeared.
I can see the sadness,
The everlasting fears.

Everything happens,
For a reason I swear.
Our heartstrings are pulled,
And sometimes tear.

Just look for the one,
With a needle and thread.
Who can mend your heart,
Be there till the end.

The one who loves you,
With open arms.
Who cares for you,
Inflicts no harm.

I promise you I'll try,
To light up your life.
To cherish you endlessly,
To get rid of the strife.

I promise you,
That I will try.
To cure your rose,
So it does not die.

No matter what happens,
I'll stand up with you forever.
I promise you, hunny,
We'll make it through together.