Best Cirrhosis Poems
The weary ploughman shuffles
along the deserted bridle path,
his day-long work completed,
furrows wound around his piece of land,
just arable enough to provide his daily bread.
His dreary shack is cold and bare,
just a few essentials. Oh, once it thrived,
but that, alas, was quite a long past.
Slow movements help him light his fire,
and hang inside the hearth a pot full
of vegetables harvested from small plots
that once was a sort of garden of his wife.
Waiting for his meagre repast, he sits.
upon a decrepit sofa, thinking of the furrows
and what he could sow there provided
he manages to find the seeds and tubers
for the next Thanksgiving Day.
Furrows, furrows everywhere, so very like
the furrows of his weary days gone by.
The day when he was barely ten years old,
came home to find his drunkard of a father
dead at last from cirrhosis of the liver.
Left school and began to till the land
under the caring eyes of his once-battered mother.
The day he met plain Jane, shy and speechless,
they walked along the banks of a lonely stream,
never uttering a word, never holding hands
until the day they finally got married.
Then, the worst furrow of all, the day his child
Was born prematurely stillborn. That day
he could not mourn. Only his wife cried.
Until some years later she too followed her child.
And still, he would not mourn, bottled-up grief.
Yet he had one firm conviction.
The paths of life lead slowly to the last furrow,
there to find, at last, eternal peace.
Have I found you upon a mistake?
A misgiven-prison- yet a gift just the same
Scars mend,however - my internal lack such privilege
My place will always be place, a moment's glance
I thought I'd lost that sweet smell, that Honeysuckle aroma-
of wanting
For I was revisited time and time again,
with the inhalation of burning leaves
Now is the time of mending
I look forward to getting drunk on the Rose Water-
Let my swirl in the emotions, that preface yearning
Starvation lead to my cirrhosis, my anorexic heart
which long awaited the nutrition that could only come from you
As you have breathed that sacred breath of life back into me,
one that I thought only a Cherub could behold
Did you hear the music? That symphony I wrote so long ago
it lured you to me
Brought you home, gave me place
expired no more
for now I live; letting go of yester-years.
Don't take any of it too seriously.
That's all I got, kid.
Fling paint on the bedroom walls
if you want to,
and call it interior design with a modern touch.
If it happens to look good,
it's still nothing.
Just like all the nothing we call art.
So what?
If it feels good, do it.
If it feels really good, do it a lot,
if it's really worth going against the grind.
(Moderation's a nice touch, but I prefer doing things
however much I want to. Until I get bored and move on,
no self-regulation required)
I recently started drinking more.
That's my new thing.
They say drinking a lot too often,
ultimately causes cirrhosis of the liver.
(For years, I bought it)
Well that's just fine.
Hell, why have a healthy liver just so you can live long enough
to watch yourself decline,
until there's no more good time games
to be had in secrecy?
Long enough to watch yourself stop walking fast,
stop screwing hard,
stop wiping your own ass even?
I'd rather live fast,
and die even faster.
But that's my thing.
Yours may well be something else,
like painting daisies, or growing tomatoes,
for the hell if I know why.
(They'll give you plenty more
to choose from through the years)
A bit vulgar for your tastes, I know.
But vulgarity is life.
You may as well embrace it,
enjoy it.
I probably shouldn't be saying this to a five-year-old,
but it's all you got kid.
In Hades, flows the chthonic Styx, a river
of woe and pain (a channel thoroughfare;
where Charon ferries the dead, who despair)
which unnerves our damned souls till we quiver.
The Styx! It's like cirrhosis which kills the liver,
metastasizing there; but does not care;
and tortures us beyond what we can bear!
Because we are thrice-damned, we now shiver
with the peals of the Stygian death-knell;
while Heaven appears like a hope long dead
(as if we’re ten-thousand feet deep in hell!),
here, where the redeemed dare not walk or tread,
we are but ghosts, like shades without a shell:
yet, hell can we brave; but, the Styx we dread.
how chronic is your life
when your about to die
when you know
it was just
a matter of time
how chronic was your life
when you know it was because
they (doctor) won't treat you right
how chronic is it, when
there is too many of us for
someone to care...
black ball for a regenerative life
Terrorist dressed in white
just because i like to write
I constantly search for it
but it's enigmatical elusive,
hidden in a Mona Lisa smile.
Should I arm myself against self inflicted pains?
Camouflage my feelings with insouciant emotions?
For all my cirrhosis equivocal endeavors,
I manage only to forge a jealous rift,
until fragile truths bring sullen tears.
For God is love, and love is truth.
Had I misused it?
Is that why I can't find it now?
Yet they say that love is beautiful.
Where does true beauty lie?
All I find is veiled secrets,
thinly disguised behind mirthful masks
frivolously worn on carefree Valentine days.
Should in dire despair give up?
A sip of whisky, a little nipsky-
for my liver this is risky!
Cirrhosis bound, by ultrasound,
but still I feel a little frisky
Does it matter, when to Death are shackled,
and we join earth's Kings and Queens?
Time, the force, we cannot battle-
I've seen it in my Dreams!
My autopsy room is a confessional,
where killers in absentia divulge
their sins through bodies
rigid and frigid, mutilated and mute.
Graffiti of abrasions, contusions and lacerations
reenact without deceit or reservations
a catalogue of perversions and violations.
Rage, hatred, greed, jealousy, sickness
explode and leave behind vandalized anatomies,
a *********** of naked emotions
in the topography of vacated husks.
Silently, they talk.
With my eyes, I listen.
They confide in me about themselves too,
these chatty cadavers,
about their public faces and private hell.
Tattoos speak of loves and obsessions,
silicone breasts betray insecurities,
medications reveal internal insurgencies,
needle marks give away muffled screams,
cirrhosis lets on alcoholic dreams.
A hundred foibles preserved by the
candor of rigor mortis,
each corpse an abridged,
unfinished biography.
By the end of their final confessions, the departed
have parted with their burdens of secrets.
In death much more than in life,
there is honesty.
Still, I take comfort in the lies of the living.
He was my father… though in name only
I knew him as the one who with my mother bore me.
That’s all he ever was to me.
I am the son of a man who drank and slept out
ever since I could remember.
My mother’s pain is forever etched in my heart
Now he lays in a hospital bed
A skinny ,withered frame, cirrhosis of the liver the doctor’s say
No chance of survival, he can go any day.
I don’t know why I visit…I feel no love for him.
I think only of my mother now many years gone
And wonder why this wicked man’s life goes on
Why does he linger here, why can’t he just disappear.
I can’t even touch his hand laying fragile on the sheet
Twitching and drumming an erratic beat.
He cannot even look at me…maybe he’s ashamed
So he should be…does he even know my name
I come every day to sit beside his bed
Not a word is said.. not a look is shared
Even as a tear dropped from his eyes..I felt nothing
but hate as I looked upon his haggard face.
The evening of the sixth day…I sat at his side
and drew my chair closer to his bed
I looked at him so frail and weak
And took his hand in mine.
He glanced at me sheepishly
And quickly looked away again
I kissed his cheek, I don’t know why
But a strange feeling filled my heart
I forgive you dad, I do love you, I said
Go now in Peace.
Where those words came from
I don’t even know, but as he closed his eyes one last time
I stood up, extended my arms to Heaven
And was enveloped in a dazzling radiance
Forgive…..Forgive… rang in my ears
And as my spirit soared my soul was reborn.
One thing we discovered that all aliens are not cruel
In fact they do have humility and care being loyal
To our multi-verse in tons
In a way like humans
Some are even superiors to us
With cutting edge technology thus
Some can be inferior to us
But not cruel and selfish like Sapiens
Those were the freshest example
To the universal brotherhood a preamble..6
After treating us in most universal way
They bade a good bye in a unique way
The moment was unforgettable
Since the multi-versal bond became stable
Gifting us latest tools and weapons
Besides the knowledge of making vaccines
The team of the biologists departed miles
In a fraction of second with smiles
The tools such as scanning the universe
The compass which runs in outer space terse..7
A goggle which detects virus in body
A medicine that cures all malady
The skills of making water from air
The technique creating fuel fair
How to make a plant grow into a tree
In a few seconds to be stress free
Autism, leprosy and tuberculosis
Corona, dengue and cirrhosis
Would no more be in system solar
For they gave us solutions stellar..8
We too decided to have a purpose
Of making the universe an abode of peace
Back to earth- we were seen as polymaths
Thought leaders and titanic smiths
For the knowledge we received soon delivered
To the research scholars in varsities cultured
The nation felicitated us uniquely
As we became the inter stellar community solely
What a way to have a travel in space..!
Precious was the meeting with our fellow aliens face to face..!!..9
It makes me think that a life with no purpose
Has no meaning at all thus
Where there is a will there is a way
Let us say this come what may
While the sun shines come on make hay
There lies hope in each ray
With clear vision and mission possible
We achieve many a thing impossible
‘The universe is our home.’ A new address
Even Lord Krishna said in his address..!! ..10
Beers, wines and spirits
Produce some relaxant effects.
Addiction to alcohol
Puts you into a pothole.
You drink alcohol as a daily habit.
You sip it like a natural water.
Just in a bit,
Your life is in danger.
You think it's fun and you're hot.
But you are not!
Intoxication and dehydration
Are some mild effects.
You live in fear and escape problems.
You think alcohol is the answer.
Cirrhosis, brain damage and cancer
Are the irreversible effects.
If you want to live longer,
Be smarter than your doctor.
Vodka, gin, tequila, whisky, brandy...
Put them all away!
You just sit there without saying anything, with that amaizing body. Im attracted without you even having to say a word. Your body language is calling, pulling me close. So I get close. I get a taste, then suddenly I want you more. When i'm with you, all my wories go out the door. When im with you, i kiss all my troubles goodbye. You make me feel like..................... When I woke up in the morning the troubles i had kissed goodbye came back and kissed me goodmorning. The problems that went out the door came back knocking and they brought their friends. So i go back to you and take another sip, the troubles and problems go away then they come back rushing in the morning. I guess I have to keep you by myside so that my problems can keep of. Now im addicted to you, and I love it. Its because of you that i lost my job, its because of you that my girlfriend left, its because of you that my family despces me but its in your arms where I find comfort. You keep ruining my life yet i cant let you go, you've got me under a spell and im madly in love with you. I was rescently diagonised with liver cirrhosis and the doctor said that its all your fault. He told me to leave you but I love you too much to dump you. You are about to kill me but i still hold on to you. This here is true love. You my bottle of scotch are my one true love, till death do us part.
it was not so much that his liver had succumbed to cirrhosis
the jaundice had resulted from hard core assault on his brain
no rose-tinted spectacles would ever restore his faulty vision
myopia in itself was not a problem but refusing its correction is
in his mind however darkness was reserved for the plague
hallucination was if one questioned superiority of White folks
then his worst nightmare became true at a gay bashing party
just when they started to burn an effigy of sexual aberration
ready to slaughter a ****** on the altar of self-righteous pride
already mocking and chanting for God’s straight creation
someone spiked his drink with LSD and his vision went wild
a prism of spectral rainbows danced and he dropped his guard
and his pants as a matter of fact and he fondled his mate’s groin
delirious with such panoply of diverse hues of flamboyance
gaudy radiance sent shivers of animation down to his phallus
which would not stand up to the pressure of diverse vibrance
he stuffed little blue pills down his throat but all he accomplished
was a giant headache and a pain in the backside when vibrations
on batteries stretched his soul’s sphincters in uninhibited pleasure
hetero phobia and racial oppression vanished once and for all as
he embodied the vicious hypocritical flatulence he had always been
disgraced and confined to an orange jump suit the iris of fantasy
came to confirm that he had never been the brightest crayon in the
box but exposed in unwilling iridescence he whined like a sheep
at the slaughter to the unforgiving applause of jaundiced demise
29th June 2021
She said that the stars were listening.
She said that her gift was a curse
but that was four years ago.
She said that she hoped
we would understand.
She added that she was proud
that her daughter had a child
but daughter had stopped speaking with her/
She never mentioned a date
or possible cause of death.
This summer, four years later
she told a friend she’d been drinking
since her boyfriend died of cancer.
She said that had cirrhosis
of the liver—
she said she couldn’t stop.
She refused detox—
she couldn’t stop.
She couldn’t let go
of her delusions,
her friends.
My friend and I looked
to see her website
about her poems and visions
had been taken down
and only her obit remained.
It was a clear day
when she called my friend
to tell him the news.
as she stood on her patio
and peered at clear skies.
knowing an overhead satellite
was reading her thoughts.
The psychiatrist gave her meds
to ease her delusions
as she bore the weight
of a body of knowledge
no one else possessed.
My friend called her
and called again
and she didn’t answer,
he and I pondered her fate
not knowing if she was
alive or dead.
It hurt thinking
maybe she wouldn’t
want us to know.
My friend and I reminisced
about the times we sat with her
on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop
and traffic passed
as we shared poems.
Back then
we always understood
her fears and aspirations
and we always loved her
as we listened between the lines.
Do not produce children
telepathic hypochondriac...
don't transform girls
in symptomatic blind
don't do women
changed functions
think of the wounds
Like splenic roses
But oh don't forget
the rose of the rose
From the rose of Hiroshima
the perpetual rose
the radioactive rose
monstrous and stupid
The hepatic rose with cirrhosis
The anti rose, atomic
discolored and unperfumed
Sans rose sans nothing... !
PS Interactive reinterpretation of the poem Rosa de Hiroshima from Vinicius
de Morais, Brazilian poet BY Alkas poetry