Thursday, July 30, 2009

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Thursday, July 23, 2009

SLAM

Memories fly by jerky with awkward pauses like thissssssssssssss----
Where do I fit among the the things I've made and the things I remember
Are they one in the same do not both bear my name
My shame multiplied by every dirty deed I've done every good song I sung
Is gone like thissssssssssssssss----
What is this weird scrapbook I keep changing
Aligning pictures in different spots just to fit the plot like thisssssss----
I am the Creator, the Destroyer of me
Save, crop, discard, burn, move, lose, keep, CHANGE
CHANGE is the only constant is this shifting history of mine
So i am constantly changing because i am constantly changing
(My past)....My past rearranged feels like living room furniture rearranged
All the same pieces present but im pointing my remote at the couch waiting for the signal to kick in like thissssssssss----
You see, I see you in the present and feel nothing but the past
Embrace lost chances and pick up leftover forks in the road
But all these forks do is force food down my throat and I choke like thissssssss----
Keep your fork give me a knife hard, straight and shiny and with it I will forge my own path
And I will cut out any resemblance to you
No longer will I miss what I never had no longer willIi long for greener grass
I will eat what I have I will be thankful for what I got
Because its all I got
And though reality's mean dreams do not feed
No dreams keep us from whats in front of us comforting us with maybes and possibly's
Starving us elusively with promises of feasts if we hold out
Like a contestant in a game show we risk it all on a chance like thissssss----
We'll not me I'm taking the money and walking
No longer will I spit in the face of good fortune
After all isn't this always what I wanted and I got it
I got it or it got me but either way I get it so forget it like thisssssss----

just a thought,

All the chatter stops
While my head decays.

Eating itself like a malnutritioned tape worm,
festering in the wounds
nestling comfortably...and thinking of you.

I watch you run like a river.
You're ugly when you're naked.
Like a salmon flopping for its life in a bear's mouth,
You'd scream if you could.

untitled right now

I woke up foggy.
Something like dragon's breath hung heavily in the air

Suddenly, and without warning, my head grew so light it lifted right off of my body.
It snuck out the backdoor while my parents were sleeping

It floated over these relentless hills,
Rolled with them into the bastard valley

I chased after it through the dirt and rust
Over beaten streets and through broken homes

It skipped like a stone over the tired river
And weaved like a rusted lattice through the old bridge.

It got tossed aside into the abandoned mills,
bouncing like an echo off the crumbling walls

who's out there?

Jake woke up grumbling. Ravaging through the bedroom like a midnight beast sheepishly looking for prey. This is generally the way Jake walked. It gave the illusion he had some sort of unassuming command over a room, like he wasn’t trying. But I knew what no one else knew, that he was trying. That he tried harder than anyone else.

Sarah was only some-what startled by Jake’s peculiar behavior at this hour of the morning; she stretched, yawned and strung her body back along Jake’s bed. She clung to the bed sheets with her finger nails like a cat.

Why doesn’t she see it like I do? Why doesn’t she just keep her eyes open a few more minutes, why doesn’t she watch Jake stare at himself in the bathroom mirror? Why can’t she see it like I can? If only she paid attention, why don’t girls like that ever REALLY pay attention? He’s more broken than she is, but she’ll never know because she always stretches, yawns and goes right back to bed.

Jake is staring at himself in the bathroom, wondering how a man blessed with a physique like his could be awoken by the same nightmare three nights in a row. In the real world, nothing scared Jake. In fact, Jake scared others. He was a tall, athletically built twentysomething with a career and a corporate ladder to climb. He had the ambition and he had the looks. He was already raking in a killing by comparison to the rest of his college buddies, so what was it that wouldn’t let Jake sleep at night?

It seemed that in Jake’s dreams, he was not as sure of himself. Sometimes, Jake would hear a voice in his head. During the day, it was easy to ignore – he cluttered it with small talk about his recent bonus or his new golf swing, but for the past three nights, when Jake and the world slept, the voice grew a face. The voice he could drown out during the day was commanding Jake’s attention in his dreams.

Three nights in a row, Jake woke up in the same cold sweat. Three nights in a row he would awake foggily, and with the same rehearsed carelessness he did everything with, saunter to the bathroom, green with the same envy as Narcissus. Then the face off began. It was here the voice the voice in Jake’s head and Jake himself wrestled with each other. What either one was saying to each other, not even I could say. My powers of observation don’t extend to the telepathic.

Ah – wake up, Sarah! Your precious lover does think twice, he does know fear; he is human like everyone else - like me. So you see Sarah, if he has fear in his heart, if he has doubt, how is he any different than me? How is he better than me?

A Happy Medium

Her father was frozen when she was seven; explanations not exactly given to the girl at the time as to why she would be occupying the top bunk of her Aunt Gertrude's guestroom indefinitely. The year was 1978, Dr. Sanders returning from his extended stay in Mexico with fewer screws intact. The whole family initially blamed his metamorphosis on the heat, claiming that three months away from upper state New York could quite literally drive any man into a psychological coma. "He's just recovering in his own way," they would say, before tiptoeing around his cherry office door.
His daughter knew better. She had spent the majority of her childhood fiddling with the dials on their recently-dubbed antique television set, learning all the ins and outs of dented human conditions from syndicated 1950's serials. There were robotic and alien explanations available, all of which she ruled out rather quickly, within the first week or so of speculating. The illogical man was still there, still clearing his throat the same way, ignoring roadside diversions along the highway. He still joked with her about the mundane, and would let her break the rules after school and on the weekends. The girl still loved her father, despite the visible shift that was frosting over as winter approached.
It was then that the subscriptions started to come in; all soon alphabetized on his baron bookshelves. He had started systematically burning hardbacks in the living room fireplace around October; his daughter intrigued by the sparks as Chaucer and Elliott found their place amongst the ash and cinder. The magazines were of two specific types: science and pornography. He would flip through their pages with ease, filing the excess subscriber cards in separate folders, letting them pile up. Soon she would hear him up late, coughing on the receiver, whispering her dead mother's name from across the hallway in a house that had recently started to echo, mostly due to how hollow it had become. The girl eventually learned to ignore such panting, sleeping soundly for the first twenty days of anticipation before Christmas.
It was on the 22nd when he went missing; the large estate completely empty the following morning when the girl awoke for her final day of school that year. Her calls fizzled in the hallways; a misguided fear coming and going by noon as she snacked on day-old pastries and cereal directly from the box before passing out on the lavender sofa. The girl dreamed of surprises too big to fit under the tree. She saw her own face on the television screen; giddy and entranced by the wrapping paper and assembly required. There were too many bright things surrounding her to let something so minimal effect the seasonal mood; open-fired chestnuts and so forth.
Then came the knock on the front door, abruptly stirring the girl from her slumber. She opened it without thinking, and was soon propelled into a stagnant ultra-violet world of questioning and regret. What had happened to the good doctor? Had he been acting stranger than usual lately? She tried her best to simply nod while starring past the smudgy glass of the police chief's office and out into the other interrogation areas. Her Aunt Gertrude was later than expected to pick her up; the backseat of the car cluttered with unwrapped boxes. The girl was close to being thrilled again at the sight, had the worry not consumed her for the duration of the night.
She slept out of touch with the mattress, tossing her arms over the side frequently to feel the weight of gravity on her fingertips. The house phone would ring in unexpected spurts, almost consciously aware of how close she was to falling asleep completely. The girl didn't bother to listen to her aunt's sobbing the second or third time around, cursing other countries and fashionable waves of embarrassment. It was a predictable reaction and furthermore the kind that the girl would inevitably get used to as time passed them both by.
Doctor Sanders was discovered at noon the next day, whimsically preserved in a hibernated state, near the welcome sign to the same town he was born in. The subsequent tests of his blood and stool were non-conclusive; his fellow physicians, young and old, in complete shock over such circumstance. His body contained chemicals that they didn't know the names of; the doctor's speech patterns erratic. He had no clues to offer them of his whereabouts for the previous thirty-six hours, and was sooner than later running through numbers on his own time in the nearest puddled facility. It would be eleven years later when they finally decided to let him on out on good fortune and dumbfounded curiosity.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Recipe Box

Its 523 local time, like that matters, its all the same to me. Pornhub.com blends into facebook blends into food channel and i feel hungry and horny. This is what I've become a digital wreck seeking some sort of release through status updates, naked flesh and a red snapper with a mango salsa. Viewing but never experiencing, updating but never living, salivating but never eating. Ideals are washed away with white russians with a chaser of remorse. Pathetic, i think so, but maybe its human. Maybe I'm not as special as i want to think i could be. Maybe I'm just like everyone else a huge waste of talent and creativity. Maybe that's the point, the lesson, the ever pounding mantra of modern life. You will never be what you think you can be. Its 530 local time, like that matters, its all the same to you. And, usually that's where i end reiterating my opening statement. I feel it drives the point across and is creative. I haven't grown since 7th grade english class. I'm a walking mess that i wish on no one. Yet silently i hope you all feel the same to give me a sense of normalcy. Is it normal for suicidal thoughts not faze you. Is it normal to watch a girl choke on a cock with being double penetrated. The whole time stroking your own cock hoping she was there sucking you off. Am i being too honest too raw. If so its the white russians talking. I am 100 percent disconnected from everything around me. I only write this... fuck i don't even know why. And so if you stumble upon this with you feel sympathy, empathy, or apathy. I don't know cuz i'm not sure what i feel. I've lived with this dead version of myself for so long i forget to be repulsed when I'm jerking it to a 25 man bukkake while Rachel ray cooks in the background. Sometimes thing get mixed up and my porn and food obsessions mix. Its a creamy Alfredo sauce that's being mixed in belladonna's throat while bobby flay services 14 inch cocks for a cream based puree for his flounder. Visually orgasmic recipes that leave you repulsed and retching unless your me then your horny and hungry.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Everybody's Wrecked on Main Street.

Only three times in his life had Jason ever seen his father cry. These instances occured at his daughter's death, his own father's death, and this very particular moment, to which Jason couldn't, and still can't completely fathom. The delusional rantings coming out of his mouth were a bit more than just slightly frightening. This day, he'd spent contemplating any possible turn of events which may have come out in the favor of the family. Things were not looking too good.

There was his mother, whom had stopped answering the phone hours ago, and was out driving around town, after making several suicide threats, declaring "I'm at fault for everything... I can't do anything right," in her most frustrated tone. Then there was Jason's brother, Felix, to whom was both exhausted, and fighting his own battle at the moment, to whom called telling Jason to come stay at his house in the midst of the chaos. "Trust me bro, this isn't your battle." Felix said over a brief phone conversation. "No, but what happens if I'm not here?" Jason replied.

"Maybe he'll see that nobody needs this bullshit."

So the day all built up, with all the world speaking to him, saying, "Jason, today will be awful. Accept it." And thus he did. Sitting quietly at his computer chair, recollecting, and awaiting the turn of events, Jason sat down and began to type. It was incomprehensible to him whether he was typing actual logic, or just details that couldn't entirely be pieced together... all the tears, all the insanity, all the selfishness, and hopes and dreams, and wants of a family that was finally falling to pieces.

The sick part was that deep down, all that Jason could think was, "it's about fucking time."

The old man had been threatening it for years, that he was leaving, that he couldn't take it anymore. Always ignoring the stipulations... always ignoring the fact that each bill left unpaid was left unpaid by both of them, and not just by his "Ritztown garbage slut of a wife," as he'd so often called her.

5:00 PM hit, and Jason's mother, in tears, hardly audible, declared, "I'm leaving and you can't come with." Jason argued for a few moments, hiding the fear in his eyes of the notion that his mother might not return from this trip. They argued incessantly for a short period of time before she promised him that she wouldn't do anything stupid, and that she just wanted to be alone.

As she drove off, he pulled up; Jason's father arrived home from work finally. He came in, and immediately raised his voice. "You couldn't even stop her from leaving? If she doesn't come back, you killed her boy." He mumbled, adding shortly after "everyone in this family's so fucking dependable."

At this point, Jason would take no more of this. He simply stated, "fuck you old man, you'll die alone," very calmly, then casually stepped out the door. The tears didn't begin til he was halfway down the block. On the walk, he was sure that nature was speaking to him. The area was overcast, and ugly, with a bit of wind, and occassional, large drops of rain falling on top of his head. Mother Nature was telling Jason to get bent.

After some time, he decided to return, fearing that this may be the last time he speak to his father. Upon entering the door, his father glanced at him for a moment, then went upstairs to continue packing. Twenty minutes later, he returned downstairs with a bag in each hand, stuck his head into the living room, and muttered, "i love you son. goodbye"

Thursday, July 16, 2009

God Blessed This Mess

Friends gone for the weekend
Or the week

Unscheduled trips to other towns
And outer space

The sound of your own thoughts
Silencing themselves
Like the proper instructor

A split second
Before you were ready to say:
Fuck it
Fuck it all
And then some

The temporary goal
Left unaccomplished
On the cusp of becoming
Something ignored
By the general public

Poor sound quality
Throwing you off balance
Even at night

The girl you didn't bother to talk to
Posing unattractively online
With the person

You expected her To be posing with
Thinking about
And getting over the next morning

The songs that have dried up
Meaning what they meant
And then getting personally defunct

The things left unsaid
That are so much better that way

The thought of work tomorrow
And how much time we can all kill before then

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

the protector.

"Hey pretty baby, get high with me. We can go to my sister's if we say we'll watch the baby. The look on your face yanks my neck on the chain and I would do anything to see you again ..."


Neko Case sang it, and I felt it as I laid on the passenger seat facing you on the trek back upstate. 


It was passive listening because it was streaming through your car radio via my iPod. Active listening can really only be done the right way on vinyl on equipment that serves as furniture. 


"An iPod and an adapter is not a piece of furniture," I thought aloud. 


You looked down to me and just smiled. 


"No, it's not. But you can still listen, right?"


"hey, there are such tender wolves 'round the town tonight..."


I tried hard to remember as much of two nights prior when you impressed me by digging out that old record player from the closet and somehow got it working with a little bit of Scotch tape. You said it'd sound better on your new one, but as the night went on, felt the opposite. Every record sounded better than the last. Maybe it was the drug; maybe it was the aura; maybe it was actually the record player; or maybe it was just what we wanted it to be. 


We could've played "Thriller," "Bookends," "Oh, Inverted World," "Slanted and Enchanted" and "Highway 61" on your new one if the needle weren't broken. You cursed at your absent nephews for being careless, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was probably me who broke the needle when I was trying to cram the record player in your trunk the day you were moving away from me. I didn't say anything for the sake of ruining our wonderful, beautiful time we were having.


That night was really special. I agreed to do it because I trusted you and felt the most safe around you than probably anyone else except my dad. You were in a different place than me, and I wanted you to desperately feel everything I was feeling when I watched the sky turn from blue to black. So I told you I could have fun by myself and hunted the house for Monopoly dollars I swore your nephew hid. You eventually got there, too, but where I wanted to create art or messes or imaginary worlds, you wanted to create nourishment. You fed me tomatoes soaked in strawberry vinaigrette as I sat in the corner and cradled my knees. I didn't get up until dancing to "Billie Jean" became irresistible. I danced but actively listened. "Thriller" freaked me out and by the time "Your Algebra" came on from "Oh, Inverted World," I felt paralyzed hearing sounds I don't recall that band making.


We'd later watch a movie I tried to get you to watch three seasons ago, but never did. I was enchanted; you were intrigued. At the end, you snaked your arms around my legs, and I departed to the bedroom in hopes you'd follow. You did. My heart was clearly audible, and I sniffled when I realized that exactly one week ago, I was camping out in the hospital for a second night in a row and afraid to sleep because I knew when I woke up, she would be dead. I told you about how I was huddled under a couch in a waiting room because there were no blankets. I told you I knew she was gone when I watched the man with a beeper whiz by with a Bible. He was also wearing a Yamaka. You pulled me closer, kissed my forehead, cradled my head in your arms and I fell asleep  watching the sky go from black to blue.


"Oh, how I forgot..."


I sat up and saw it was raining. You had your four ways on and could barely see the road in front of you. 


"I feel very safe right now," I told you.


You looked over and your mouth moved upward a bit into a slight smile.


"You're strong at handling sadness," you said to me. "I'm, well, I'm strong at protecting."


I couldn't agree more.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

buried shallow in
the sand and
buried deep
in the sand of time.
buzzards circle. skin
scars and cracks.
if you could cry,
now would be the time.

desert waste of life.
never got it right.
a ship sets sail in a sea of salty mud.
just off the coast, its engines flood.
on board, the boys say different prayers than the men.
below the deck, the captain's run himself aground.
wind chimes are really sad at night...i think...

"go to the card. go to the fucking card"

Friday, July 10, 2009









learning slowly
we had a real big hail storm






sometimes this 138 thing really freaks me out. i mean...i don't sit and wait for a post that has 138 in it, but when i come on here that's just what happens. it's right there. waiting...

Monday, July 6, 2009

Four steps with two left feet.

1. I am still a kid.
2. I sit back and watch everything found to be real pass me up. Pass. Me. Up. I stay sat back.
3. Stay back in space!
4. I used to want to be an astronaut.

Calm.

One speck of dense matter.
Banging turns into soft claps.
Collapsing systems.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Friday, July 3, 2009

Bob Hope on a float. A float of Bob Hope,
Not a Human Man on a float.
Just rolled into Pasadena from Nam.
Working for a living. Can't blame 'em.

Get behind that guy behind that guy behind that guy.
They are not saving you they are hiding you.
It's New Year's Day.
You can forget about everything now!
Celebrate life. It's void of pain!
Did not you hear?
Wake up wake up, it's not a dream!


...............you are sucked in to
that one singular vacuum. you may not come
back. We, the us, that keeps holding it up,
will miss you.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Emotional Renaissance

He hears about her death late, which seems slightly absurd considering how fast news travels these days. Nevertheless, the words shake him in a manner that he's not used to. She was so very young -- they all say, including him, although like all other things he somehow manages to make it about himself. It's a way for him to better assess his own mortality at twenty-three; his past failures, lowered motivation, self-esteem, but above everything else what gets to him the most is his lack of effort to care before she died.
They hadn't spoken in person for over a year; their last encounter brief due to his crippling infatuation with another. He thanks the universe that she's still breathing, even if some of the consistencies aren't quite what they used to be. Then the overwhelming nature of the phone calls and text messages filter in. He loosely flirted with the idea of this young and recently whittled flower unbeknowest to anyone else (His productively close and strangely distant friends and acquaintances)
It was a personal conquest to prove an age-old point to himself. A lack of concern for everything she was, only made her want him more and furthermore turned his own thoughts on the entire situation inward.
He wasn't himself in brief technological flashes of boredom. She would send him her vulnerabilities and he would return the favor with an intelligently bloated facade of a personality.
And this trend didn't so much continue as it popped up on occasion in the late and vacant nights spent in similar small towns with dry wells and feeding holes, until it became too much for him. Not the thoughts necessarily. They were genuinely fantastic while still remaining marginally false when push came to shove. The slender form saying all the right things in the back of his head wasn't her, but more so the her that he wanted her to be. The girl that chose him and his anti-social tendencies or compulsive vices over the brightened lights and blurry Sunday mornings.
She invited him to participate in the safe and expendable occasions to which he denied at least three times like Peter, before the end of it.
Part of him didn't want to put up the effort of selling himself short for what would have tragically amounted to an easy lay for mostly everybody else. Not him, though. He refused to take the drive, to order the drinks, to listen to the same stories heard a thousand times over, simply in preparation for the standard effects of alcohol to sink in. He was above the curb, while still unfortunately stranded below it.
Communication was finally cut following a table tennis game of electronic symbols, sent back and forth before he got his cellphone plan changed to compensate for evolved times. She considered texted sentiments communication while he was simply trying to work on something more concrete, about the ones who truly managed to spin him around blindfolded in all directions.
She felt inferior and dumbfounded by him electronically shrugging her off of his shoulder and soon sent her emotional imbalances back through the same means. he told her to go fuck herself and thought nothing of it until after his work was done.
The images then pounded away at his brain on sporadic and unnatural occasions when he was having problems deciding on a direction. The fantasy still surprisingly held up for him, representing in the simplest of definitions a last resort for a new era. One when it all suddenly made sense. He could be the fully-fleshed example of what he always wanted to be with a girl so beautiful, but at the same time, only worth the experience of another late night.
That was all her really wanted, and yet as it still somewhat tears him apart, he has problems deciding what defect made him stop caring. He's not sure if it's a still grainy moral code or just the way times happen to be sputtering along. A refusal to conform, tied together with the strings of a philosophy that clearly states -- it's so much better to be alone, waiting for something spectacular to come along rather than placing half the dozen eggs into the carton and seeing how well they sit.
However, despite all his thoughts on unexpected circumstances (poor motor skills in beach side communities) he still can't help but feel that there is always going to a splotchy void within himself simply because he knows now that she is forever gone. Regret is a piece of it, although double-edged in nature. Part of him regrets the way he acted, whether it was virtual or in person; the seasoned appearance of someone who didn't ever give a fuck. The second and less stable part regrets that the fantasy will never be the same again.
It fell apart before it's time, and now only acts as a reminder to an in-between period of his life when he didn't completely and fully understand what it meant for life to be fleeting; for last chances, however mediocre they may be, to truly be last chances. He hates that every similar thought of her and the person she was trying to be makes him think of death, but in any case has learned a valuable lesson in the proceedings. There's no point in being so short with the others anymore.

I am the asshole

I heard a knock on the door and I didn't know where it was coming from. The rest of the house was seated comfortably stoned in the living room watching O Brother! Where Art Thou, with Chris and I drinking forties. I walked towards the solid grey blue front door with the rotting brass doorhandle, turned it to discover an empty hallway full of bikes punctuated with a wooden and glass door, inside the glass criss crossed fencing.
The door was not locked.
I went to the only other obvious source of this noise, the back door, which is situated a small carpeted hallway and a left turn away from the front door. I unlatched the top lock on the door and turned the other rotten brass door handle to discover an african american male post-30, and to his side, a four year old black child. I knew her age because her fourth birthday was spent in the backyard with Emmy Chris and Kelly, playing musical instruments. She was amazing, he was a drunk piece of shit. Or maybe he was on oxy, who knew. He tried to sell it to one of them. He sat there and solicited them for cigarettes and weed in the short amount of time I spent outside stoned out of my mind attempting to fathom the idea of playing a guitar.
Not that I haven't before, but regardless. It was one of those nights. Here he was.
He said 'Let me in real quick' and shoved the door open a bit, his daughters hand in his. She had typical little plastic clips, whatever the fuck they are called, and looked like a sweet little cliche that could make anyone let this drunkard with a doo rag and a junky face whose lines seem too forced for his age.
The type of thirty something who might as well be 24 seven years deep into an addiction.
I forced him out. somebody has to be the asshole occasionally.
I said "I don't want you in my house, man" and shut the door in his face. I locked and latched it, turned away and went back to the living room where all the kids sat and looked at me, their eyes bearing the question the split second before they asked "What happened?" I told them exactly what happened they said "Oh." and a tiny bit of panic ensued, particularly in myself.
I was pissed. The type of pissed that only a vulgar statement could possibly declare.
Thus I stated: "If he comes back here I'll fucking stab him" a few times and fancied myself shoving a cheap steak knife from the drawer into this bastards heart, winning the accolades of all the public for my bravery in the face of danger.
I didn't think of his perfect little inner city urban child, and where that would put her. But as I do, I wonder if it would have been better or worse.
I'm going to assume worse. Nobody wants some fat white dude stabbing their dad.
I then went out front and promptly discovered his Bronco was smoking less than half a block away,
A few black dudes circled around it, one in a tall tee particularly exclaiming how "fucked" the situation was.
Someone called 911. They already knew about it. The firetruck came and promptly put it out as if it was a scene from Grand Theft Auto III. The cops came, and so did AAA. they lingered outside as those who made the exodus from the living room to the porch watched in bummed amusement, hoping it would have blown up but also glad to be free of the shrapnel which would have exploded.
Everyone was innocent except for me. I shut him out.
Laying stoned on seperate couches, God let us forbid that we have to change
our attitudes. into, and only
apart of embaressment. Just plain
old selfishness. It's all we own now, and we hold it
like a touch and go addiction, an unchanging possession.

We watch eachother from any separate stance.
Like the wind.

We've even resorted to running now, and large closed
mouths. Open only for the special kissing reserved for strangers. Only.
And the running: Well nobody's tired as far as I can see,
Not tired enough to tell me, anyway.
I'll wait. For everyone. I'd wait and waste away as
I do. Most days its barely noticeable.
But when I see the eyes falling, and the shoulders sagging,
I remember.
I remember that once I wanted to burn instead of decay,
and now I can only think of living forever,
but "this" does not end with death.
No. It doesn't.

So we continue to stare into each other's faces,
and become overseers. But forget that it takes energy
and passion, more than we know how to maintain.
Life is that hard.
Accept that. Revel in it if you can. Because you can.