These Odd Feelings

what started as a game

I knew I could win

beyond my shallow reality

you let me in

I might have denied the lies

I might have cried away the truth

so busy, with myself

but I couldn’t stop thinking about your voice

so confused in my head

I spend my days just rolling in around in my bed

I couldn’t move last night

no strength was in my heart

no strength in sight

the thought of you not there

left my heart feeling so lonely, and bare

I wish we never touched

I wish we never hugged

I wish we never loved

why did you have to show me these emotions?

I’m dying slowly inside, in slow motion.

what use to be funny

now all I can think about is my honey

My love walking through this world unsolemn

yet, I still can’t figure out why I feel so alone?

written by: Sheila Haukaas

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls’ delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

John Donne (1572-1631)

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

— William Blake

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

- William Shakespeare (1564-1616)