Prison writings

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

-- Oscar Wilde

Memoirs of Sorrow

The lost moments,
the forgotten memories.
celebrating happiness and calculating grief
of broken heart and shattered dreams
the unfulfilled wishes and hopes that lost sheen

love that slipped,
the seconds that were missed

inside and out
just don't know how to go about
a piece of me,
part of mine
into oblivion it all sublimes
an extent of pain, another more,
yet another closed door

living everyday,
the memoirs of sorrow