No jokes for this one. The needles on the floor line is the bit I watch people walk over all day on the phone at work.
monologue on death
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Hey, life… what are you, really? People describe you in a thousand ways. To some, you’re everything; to others, nothing. You’re a person, an animal, an object.
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No jokes for this one. The needles on the floor line is the bit I watch people walk over all day on the phone at work.
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Hey, life… what are you, really?
People describe you in a thousand ways. To some, you’re everything; to others, nothing.
You’re a person, an animal, an object.
But always, always, they see you as something valuable. Something for which they’d give—or do—anything.
Oh, dear life… I find it curious how they cling to you.
Even in their worst moments, you’ll see them crawling after you, digging their nails into your dresses, which are now nothing more than rags.
Why do they long for you so much, life? Why do they cherish you so?
They don’t mind degrading themselves to the lowest level just to stay by your side.
Even if you despise them, even if you throw them to the ground, even if you scream at them that they’re nothing, they keep going.
Determined. Clinging.
Like a beggar following his executioner, hoping you’ll be merciful, that you’ll offer them a shoulder to lean on.
And then… in the deepest darkness… there I am.
Most call me “death.” Others call me “the void.”
But after naming me, silence always follows.
I am the monster under the beds that children fear.
But no child sleeps in that bed. Humans sleep there, dreaming of you.
I don’t understand them.
I am the rest their battered legs have longed for.
And yet, they’d rather walk on the needles you drop on the floor.
Will there come a day when they look down at the floor and, through their tears, say, “I’m tired”?
On that day, when they can’t take it anymore, I’ll be there.
Waiting. Offering relief.
And as I whisper in their ear, “Rest, there’s no more pain,” I’ll give them one last hug.
But not just any hug. An eternal hug.Thoughts
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No jokes for this one. The needles on the floor line is the bit I watch people walk over all day on the phone at work.
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the last two lines came out in a grey box on my phone. is that meant to be there or did the editor eat it
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The monster under the bed, and then no child sleeping in that bed, only grown people in it dreaming of life. I work nights in a care home and that is basically the room at four in the morning. The ones I sit with are mostly not frightened, they are still waiting on something. Was this written after something happened or just at a bad hour?
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The original language of this poem is Spanish, as I am a native speaker. So, if it is very well-structured... well, sorry about that. -
people really do cling like that. i've seen it. do you think there's mercy in what death is offering in the end, or something darker?
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why the beggar and the executioner image? i kept coming back to it. does it mean something specific, or is that just where the poem went?
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wait, so is life an actual person here or is death just talking to an idea? the pronoun switching made me unsure.
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the image of someone crawling after life, digging their nails into dresses that are rags, that one stayed with me. such a specific kind of desperate.
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when death says 'i don't understand them,' is that genuine confusion about why humans cling to life? or is there frustration underneath it?
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