That Bastard Schopenhauer – Poetry

To say that all we desire:
Procreate and then die!
Death is all that awaits me then —
My memory fades
with no offspring to emulate me
no one to say, she’s just like her mother
No, no one will praise
these ghastly hands nor this bitter mouth
nor these sheets of words
worn raw and bloodied
My own selfish claw ripped
away any hope of excellence
No amount of labor will bear my likeness —
No colony of bees will swarm
To protect my womb
No, not for me —
I will die as I have lived
alone and lonely upon this earth
forgotten, forgotten
and give my last breath to Death

Copyright ©2014, Lori Carlson

4 thoughts on “That Bastard Schopenhauer – Poetry

  1. calensariel says:

    nor these sheets of words worn raw and bloodied Very deep. Like that. Very sad poem, Lori.

    • Lori Carlson says:

      Thanks, Calen… I’ve been accused of writing mostly sad poetry… I guess not many happy things have impacted my art

      • calensariel says:

        I think that’s why I stopped trying, actually. It seemed the result was always the same. I try to write poetry very rarely now. But sometimes it’s cathartic and you need it.

      • Lori Carlson says:

        *nods* even when I try to write something happy, a slight bit of sadness, bitterness or melancholy slips in… but I have to keep writing.. it is in my blood and it is cathartic for me.

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