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Best Poems Written by Euan Mcfee

Below are the all-time best Euan Mcfee poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Death is just a fearful lie

Death is just a fearful lie,
A nagging fear of what is isn't.
A terrible tale of the great beyond,
Pray to your god, or his god, or hers,
Maybe a chance to die with a future.

Do as you’re told, what is right,
Nothing less.
Do a silly dance,
A potato on your head.
Stand in neat lines, waiting to end.
“You lived a good life, go forward to death,”
The angel just says,
“Follow the path, first door on your left.”

Through the door, a button,
A button marked “Respawn.”
A restart to your life, going over and over,
Redo as you’re told, what is right,
Nothing more.
Do a silly dance,
A potato on your head.
Stand in neat lines, waiting to end.
“You lived your life right, go forward to death,”
The angel just says,
“Follow the path, first door on your left.”

Through the door, a button,
A button marked “Respawn.”
A restart to your life, going over and over.
Redo as you’re told. That’s hardly fun.
Do what your like,
Watch a movie,
Go on dates.
Die unpredicted, 
Skydiving at 80.
“You lived your life happy, go forward to death,”
The angel just says,
“Follow the path, first door on your right.”

Through the door, a button.
A button marked,
“The End.”

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Dying is easy

He died once,
A long time ago.

He sat in his car,
On the side of the road.

His girlfriend had left him,
So he just looked at himself.

Crying out his thoughts,
In droplets of hell.

And he stared at his face,
Through the rear view mirror.

And he saw her looking back,
Ripping him deeper.

And he cried a bit more,
And more and more.

His life was over,
Nothing else left.

And that was it,
He had died for a bit.

But he kept going,
And dying some more.

He had died 6 times,
When he died at 84.

Details | Euan Mcfee Poem

An Overthinker's Torment

Thinking and thinking and thinking.
I want to stop going over the memories,
The looping record of agonising nothings.
That's the problem, you see?
It's not a problem to them.

A simple mistake,
So quickly forgiven, and yet,
It lingers like a pungent smell of embarrassment.

Perhaps a good action done awkward in manner,
A broken plate despite mountains of food.
It must replay.
Sleep isn't an option in this world,
Time for bed is time for a movie,
A movie, "The horror of Blank"
The timeless classic of forgotten mistakes,
Yet always remembered

Details | Euan Mcfee Poem

Hope in Puddles

Let’s give hope a try, I think.  
Before life makes us old,  
Before our hearts will go cold,  
Let’s give it a shot,  
A meaning, a purpose.  
Maybe the whole lot.  

We can build meaningful connections.  
None of this “how are you?”  
Or “How’s the kids?”  
More of “How ARE you?  
Please tell me your things.”  

The things, the things.  
The brilliant things of horrors,  
And wonders and vibrant, sad colours.  
Tell me the meaning in life.  
Your meaning, not someone else's.  
The purpose you made, you chose.  
You accepted.  

And show me the world you invision,  
And plan and bring.  
Show me the children you won’t have,  
Because they wouldn’t fit in.  
Show me the terrible things of joy,  
And hope, and meaning and hope.  
And help me understand,  
Above all, the sadness in love.  

We can understand the world,  
And the beauty and the pain,  
And the sun and the rain,  
And emotions that aren't easy to tame.  

And we can miss things,  
That we would’ve loved and hated,  
Acts of kindness and selfish friendships.  
We can be our own gods,  
Make amazing choices,  
Make terrible choices.  
Pretend life isn’t a game.  

Let’s give hope a try, I think.  
Stop focussing on purpose,  
Stop shouting to the clouds,  
“But why are you still pouring?”  
Start just enjoying the puddles,  
And the mud and the water.  
Just stop, relax and live for a bit,  
Stop looking for meaning in life,  
And maybe we’ll find it.

Details | Euan Mcfee Poem

A Poem of Hope

I hope for a day where the world doesn't end,
I hope for a day where I can find peace,
I hope for a day conflict will die,
I hope for a future that I can't provide.
An optimist says the world can't get better.
I hope this isn't true.

Details | Euan Mcfee Poem

Alone Not Lonely

Charlie is awkwardly social.
He lives his life on a cycle.
He sometimes meets buddies,
He likes to work on his studies,
Charlie is awkwardly social.

Alfie is cheery and popular,
He’s considered rather jocular
He often meets friends,
Hoping the night never ends.
Alfie is cheery and popular.

Charlie is quiet and neat.
He spends little time on his feet.
He enjoys his time,
Reading little rhymes.
Charlie is quiet and neat.

Alfie is loud and sparky.
He constantly likes to party.
Fleeting convos with mates,
Going home to one plate.
Alfie is loud and sparky.

Charlie has 3 close friends.
Meetings always extend.
He prefers being alone,
He finds people can drone,
Charlie has 3 close friends.

Alfie has hundreds of pals.
Most of them act like cows.
He goes home,
Rarely alone, yet,
Alfie is lonely.

Details | Euan Mcfee Poem

Smile

Falling out from the pit of his sleep,
Robin sits himself up, on the edge of his bed.
Dragging his body to the austere bathroom,
Facing the mirror, blankness just filling his head.
He looks at himself, so tanned and strong.
Out comes his smile, kept in a box on the shelf.
His morning routine remains mundane and consistent,
It means Robin looks great, in peak physical health.

Moving from the house, to his garden
To his car, he passes by the neighbour,
Showing an innocent smile, a wave,
A greeting, a “have a safe journey, commuter.”
He drives to work, he owns it,
The company, I mean. He is the CEO.
The boss of all people, who lives his best life,
entering the building, wearing his successful glow.

He has meetings, and meetings, and meetings,
And chats, and talks, and fleeting conversations,
With no-one in particular, just the people he sees.
Shallow, tame, babble being the primary sensations.
Robin walks through the halls, with no direction,
Successful, almost godlike. A company from nothing,
All to himself, no need for a companion.
Leaving work, the end of the day came rushing.

Robin makes it home, greeted by blank.
He drags himself back to his austere bathroom,
Facing the mirror, blankness just filling his head.
He looks at himself, so tired and BOOM!
It’s gone, he’s just looked. Can’t find it anywhere,
What will he put on tomorrow? Will they care?
He makes a quick one to wear for the days,
But it doesn’t stick, just like the last one.
It’s falling.