Beautiful, stimulating, intense,

for a time;

that’s why I feel the absence as a sadness so…

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Happy day, when I seem to find my niche.

I reach out, heartfelt, sincere.

And, alas, silence.

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Everything seemingly delusion,

from all sides, above and below,

interspersed with useful lies,

things to help us continue…

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Once, where was ideals,

now, cynicism and pain.

…Some kind of “progress”.

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

S/he asks the question (it doesn’t matter which).

I answer, reply.

S/he goes berserk.

… Is it any wonder why people lie?

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

I try; I really, truly try, constantly,

to *do* the right thing;

but, instead, I’m the one that gets “done”.

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

“In zone, ready, go!”

You’re psyched, purposeful, wise, energized.

Right then, alas, so often, it seems

complication’s ugly head will rise…

And awesomeness potential disintegrates.

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

In dangerous times (any given day),

meaninglessness takes on importance,

and men feel compelled to kill.

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

History is pain;

suffering, mutilation;

when suits, forgotten…

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Another day,

another poem about migraine pain.

Life, it feels, is a form of death.

 

(To be continued…)

©SvetkaSamizdat