The complexity of death

can be made simple—

you die.

To speculate otherwise

is a waste of time,

as the truth will be revealed

when your consciousness transforms.

Whatever the hell that means.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Love shouldn't hurt,

except when lost forever,

and the pain you feel

should make you smile

when you remember.

If it’s not that kind of love,

then it’s just not—

love.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Wherever you go,

let your feet leave lasting imprints,

not to be washed away

by tomorrow’s tide.

Turn every object you touch

into something special,

not just another trinket

from the five and dime.

And plant the seeds of inspiration,

into every mind,

you happen to meet.

Sign your name BOLDLY,

make it monstrous,

scribble it

off the edges of the page,

and always use permanent ink.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

The first half

I fought with my head down.

The next,

I will spend trying to see

all I had missed.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Instead of cucumbers

I place pickles over my eyes

because I prefer to think that self-induced agony

makes me stronger and more resilient.

I am a glutton for punishment,

so, I lay back and let the brine work its way in.

Never wincing—Never offering a single reaction to its burn,

but my retinas are on fire.

The cohesion of pickle juice and natural saline

works its way toward my brain

like a starving parasite eating its last meal.

I welcome this torture

because I find comfort in pain

and already know the sting will fade away in time,

or, I’ll just become too numb to feel it.

After all, pain is more familiar than love,

which for me is like love,

because it’s always there for me even when I never need it.

I deeply appreciate its loyalty and commitment,

and though it’s not reciprocated, it’s unconditional.

I light a candle to unwind.

A flickering flame soothes my unrest.

Lavender releases from the wax prison it was held in,

but still, I prefer the Sulphur of a match

over a deceased flower’s final excrement

because the aroma of hell is how I relax.

Dead Flowers and hell. They’re both the same anyways, right?

Everything revolves around death and ends in death.

Even while the oil bleeds out of an unsuspecting aromatic herb,

its beautiful aroma is squeezed from its last breath.

So, everything is resolved in death.

There is only one place for us in the end. For me, it’s hell.

So, I decided to get there sooner by living in one.

I wonder if they can make a candle that smells like hell.

Do you think they can extract the essence of a decaying body

and place it in a wax jar like they did that Lavandula?

I flip on a tune,

to set the mood with my favorite soundscape—

A waterfall crashing into a rainforest.

Now that’s a sound I can drown myself in.

It spills down from three thousand feet above

and smothers me like I'm being waterboarded by nature.

How interesting that water gives life, yet can so easily take it away.

Angel Falls is not my guardian protector,

but it is a fallen angel I must protect and guard

because she lifts me up closer to heaven than I’ve ever been,

then drops me back down to earth where I guess I belong. For now.

I place a warm rag over my face to simulate the Amazonian climate,

Then turn on the faucet to full blast

so, I can practice how to breathe.

No gills mean there is a struggle,

but a struggle is what I crave.

With every gulp of oxygen I lose, my existence fades,

and I start to appreciate all the small things a little more.

Who knew being closer to death,

helps you love life a little better?

Why can’t I just get there on my own instead of forcing it?

Am I fucked up for living this way,

or is living this way how I fuck?

The timer blares a turbulent cry,

and my deprivation is complete.

While the tank opens to birth me back into reality,

I can’t help but wonder,

If I am reflecting on thoughts of death because I want it,

or if it’s how I cope with knowing the fate of humanity.

The salty bath I floated in slides off me like water repels oil,

like cheaters repel love.

and like humans repel humans.

I rinse off my secret thoughts in the shower,

dry off self-hatred with a towel,

then put on a costume of lies so I may enter the world,

and on the way out I schedule another visit

to my torture spa.

I can’t wait to live again,

next month.

Fortune doesn’t come to those

Ignorant enough to believe that

No one is irreplaceable.

Despite one's greatest efforts

Even the most prestige will suffer the

Ragnarök if one becomes cancer upon the host’s skin.

For cancer must be cut out early to prevent the spread of its fatal disease.

Understanding this sooner will make it easier for everyone.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

He rose

from his bed

against

the doctor’s orders,

and took a walker-abetted trudge

down the nursing home hallway,

and down memory lane.

He’d find her

if it was the last thing

he’d do,

and if it killed him

it’d all be worth it.

and he did,

and it did,

and it was,

and in each other’s arms,

they were.

Bury me

where the sun doesn’t shine

and lay me to rest

once more

under the old oak tree,

where we once

held hands,

where I

stole my first kiss,

and

where you

loved to read

to my illiterate brain

even though it never

made me smarter—

I always daydreamed

to your voice.

I always fell asleep

to your words.

I’ll gladly take root

in that tree,

for it holds

the only memories

of my life

that matter

and probably

the memories of

a few men before me.

It’ll just be me

and a couple of guys

reliving our best times

falling in love

forever.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill