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the saddest part of dying
is what you forgot to do
the ideas born in lucid dreams
that vanished in the hue
the mountains never seen
the oceans never crossed
the poems written on scraps of paper
a lover's smile now lost
the tears you held inside
the chances never taken
the landscape of your life
an oasis now forsaken
Staring at nature , dreams are near
Right in front of me
Life storms by like a hurricane
When life gives no answers
Ask nature to help
Animals listen
Fresh air, cool breeze
Warm days, different ways
Staring off in space
Feeling calm, quiet solitude
Watching baby bird
Build her nest
Sweet, sweet
Little bird
I can’t believe, I can see
All these animals
In these woods
Staring at nature
A ghost obsessively launders a sheet--

to be mindful of form, before donning it.

A timeless washing cycle.

As if a solutionless problem lie between.

It narrows down its enormity to a sheet,

because it notices without being noticed.

Despite another form contracting with

fear upon noticing it.

It knows it exists, but one-sidedness

doesn't suffice--it's more a matter of

one-sidedness than loneliness.

Its power of seeing is not met with the

power of being seen.

Disequilibrium haunts the ghost.

Though it's noticed just as much as the

sheet--if not more.

Whereas the sheetless ghost of it--is a

sheet in a more refined realm.
I can’t help but wonder
How death will go down
In a fiery fan of flames
Or slow trickle burnout

Will I lay round for days
In a comatose state
Or with bags quickly packed
Leave right away

Will my life in a flash
In its final brain bend
Relive all my days
From beginning to end

Or me skipping along
Minding my business
When my heart says hold on
I’ve no longer got this

Will it be more of a plop
Than a final bow
The day that I drop
Will this tree make a sound

You never do know
When or where you will go
Until death catches up
And it’s the end of the show
Tokyo to Kyoto
Upon the Shinkansen

Misty rain Seattle
San Francisco Zen

1987
3710

Not really a question of if
More a question of when

Will I too disappear
Like I've never ever been?
Spray has christened the pines and firs in frost
at the waterfall.
Overtake me in the mist,
whirl your pointed pines
and infuse your senses
as you cover me in the spray.
Whirl up, sea—
whirl your pointed pines,
splash your great pines
on our rocks,
hurl your green over us,
cover us with your pools of fir.

H.D.
 2d Mike Adam
Kate
Art is dying.
Intellectualism is dying.
They would rather have AI write hundreds of years of evolution into a single sentence.
A warped piece of ‘art’ with no soul behind it.
They would rather have AI create pictures, scenes, ideas— that it otherwise would never understand itself.
We are losing what it means to be human.
Turning into soulless, confused beings— stumbling toward a future that— this time, we cannot predict.
It is wholly unprecedented.
We can only hope upon the goodness in our hearts that we remain somewhat humane.
Just enough humanity to care for one another in these trying times.
Because being human, is art.
It is the one thing that we can say we’ve created with our own hands, our own souls— minds.
Seldom to ourself, and no one else.
Feels like more of a rant.
I’m completely engulfed in anger with the recent AI scraping on writing sites.
Never be afraid to write something down you’ve thought of yourself— because very soon most of us won’t have our own minds to formulate thoughts of our own.
Many will rely upon AI to do it for them.
Gifts sometimes come unwrapped
No bows or pretty paper
Yet the contents is amazing
Very much welcomed with surprise
Early morning walks on sandy beaches
Skies changing color before your eyes
Waking up in the arms of your one and only
Unexpected pleasures and treasures
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