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John Lariviere Poem
I make something beautiful each day—
or I try.
I take my crippling sadness
and build a small light
knowing no one will see it,
no one will hold it.
It lives only long enough
to fade.
Because where there is love
there is loss,
and where there is joy
there waits the ache.
We are made to love,
and the love we’re given
for simply existing
will one day die
and carry with it
the confusion and the hurt.
So what do we do?
We begin again.
We make what we can
just to get through.
I’m only just learning this—
to accept the turning,
to accept the leaving—
because if I don’t,
someone else might carry
a sadness thats meant for me
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
Everything You Ever Loved Will Die Like It Was never There To Begin With. This is what was gifted to us at birth. That and we all get to die to someday. What the is this? Why? No one will remember me after six months. I need to be immortal.
Here's the poem.
My parents passed away ten years apart,
and both of them knew I was an alcoholic when they died.
I wish they could see me now—
happy, sober, accomplishing more in months
than I once could in years.
I’m grateful for the strength others lend me every day,
but still, a quiet sadness lingers.
A part of me will always feel I failed them.
Now, in middle age,
I finally have the chance to begin again.
I want to listen—really listen—
to make others feel seen,
to make them glad they took a moment
to share their day with me.
I want to love my brothers and sisters,
to make them feel safe and welcome
in my presence.
These are simple things,
ordinary moments of kindness and connection—
but they’re treasures I never knew
until I got sober.
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
Seven months sober. Two months out of rehab takes it toll
Into darkness maybe heard unseen numbers are small on paper,
but they feel like lifetimes to me.
Then you appeared—after all these years—
like a quiet miracle I never expected.
Your message didn’t just reach me;
it woke something I thought was gone.
You’ve brought writing back into my days.
Every word I put down now
is steadier because the way you listen.
It isn’t about making anything perfect—
it’s about breathing in a way
that feels alive again.
I don’t know where any of this leads,
and maybe that’s the best part.
Right now, it’s enough
just to share the late–night thoughts,
the small truths,
the pieces of me I kept hidden for so long.
Thank you for finding me.
Thank you for seeing me.
I’d love to hear what’s been moving through your days lately, when you
Tell me. You excite me every time
When i care to listen
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
May He deliver—
chaotic behavior,
shameless, booming
across the courtyard
so everyone hears
the inane spoken one
after another—
proof of a god,
if only they had courage
enough to think that.
How easy it is to rise,
to take control,
only to watch them choose
the same as before—
pissant peasants, asleep,
dreaming still.
Dreams may come,
but waking is the problem.
Start over again—
no love to hold,
destructive thoughts
taking over.
His family—three crows—
watch as he decides:
he goes on.
Violence, therefore,
takes over
in true value
Darkness is purity
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
Speak low
Remain Unheard
Still an option
Sound horrible
As Noise
Trickles
Lies within its
Inaudible worth
I wont hear of it
What's said
Remains confident
As confidential
One word single word
Heard aloud
Expect quick
Uproared calamity
Sloppy slightly
Undermining
This rooms
Crowd unprepared
For three guns
Maximum
Before chaos
On tippy toes
ing
Dont start
An eruption
These are not
Intellectuals
Made to be
There purpose
Dull wittles
Idiots wrong
Place wrong
Credentials
Lutenants
At most
Still though
The sure
meaning ignorance
Full cups laid around
Unpredictable
But also
ing quiet
Green boys
hard headed
Think love
Isnt confusion
Understand
As understood
By young
Dull wittles
Idiots
To carry over
Thoughts
Immortal
Make sure
They get it tomorrow
Walking animals
Hunters shot
To crush
As livestock
Before death
For told
They die twice
Before slude
So ing
Whisper or
Best address
Quietly take
Stock sliding
the docket over
Your breath
Stale beer
salmonella
Will end you
Quick like
These kids
Poor decision
Being tossed
A.slow death
Set by
weaker men
Broke agenda
Slow Moment
Just this
People are
Born to die
Going to die
Wait for
A tec is on its way
What is this
Where are we
Wrong brothel
Its 2025
I really should
Try harder
Out of this wall
Im a rodent
Dying inside
A cement wall
Waiting for nothing
is this a wall
Can I get out
From here realistically
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
We should ask each other
not how we are here
but why we are here.
The how
is already answered.
The why
drifts like smoke in the corners of our minds,
visited rarely,
if at all.
That is where God slips in.
We pretend to know why
because we cannot
or will not
understand it any better
So we weave stories
call them truth while
Religion teaches comfort
dressed as certainty,
as ee listen to voices
that know as little as we do.
To ask why we are here
is to stand in the shadow of death.
It can arrive at any moment,
yet our brains
are built to look away.
Living requires
a practiced denial.
But what of those
who have already gone?
Do they learn, in the instant of death,
the reason for their lives?
Or are we left to believe
it was simply their time—
that they had completed the unseen task
we call living?
And what of suicide—
when the ending
belongs to one’s own hand?
No one understands it
until the thought
comes knocking.
Who are we to judge,
or even to mourn,
a choice we cannot fathom?
We ask why and how
and reveal only
our fear.
Death frightens us
until we recognize
its kinship with suicide:
silence.
And sometimes
silence feels like peace.
Then there is the one who remains
when by all accounts
they should be gone.
Why am I alive
when I should be dead?
Not how am I alive,
but why?
We rush to say:
I wish I could have said something.
That was selfish.
They seemed so happy yesterday.
But happiness often arrives
just before the final step—
bright and fleeting,
a calm
before the quiet.
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
No fear of the world—
it can’t touch me now.
The noise,
the motion,
the faces—
all harmless, hollow.
What scares me
is what no one sees.
The quiet hum
behind the air,
the tilt of time
when no one’s looking.
They pass through it,
blind and smiling,
as if gravity
never stuttered.
They laugh
at the edge of something
I can’t unsee.
I’m not chosen—
just aware.
And awareness
is a cruel inheritance.
So I walk,
unblinking,
through a world
that never knows
it’s cracked.
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
You should know what you’ve brought me—
whether by purpose or accident.
I haven’t felt like this in so long,
forgetting its normalcy,
forgetting how rarely it comes
unless you go searching.
I have little to give back.
Patience was stolen from me,
understanding eroded—
I learned to mistake karma for coincidence,
love for passing conversation.
It’s hard to hold on to something
as simple as kindness
when it’s offered to someone
who isn’t used to it.
But your beauty makes me lighter.
Your attention makes it real.
You don’t ask me to explain it.
You’re in my life now.
You should know
how much it changes me
to be respected,
to be seen.
What I would do
to make you safe,
to make you comfortable—
would shock those
who’ve never been given
what they quietly miss.
Please, don’t leave my life.
And if you must,
not until I’ve learned
how to carry
what you’ve given me.
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
It’s hard to understand suicide.
Is it selfish—
to think you could have changed the outcome,
that only you could have spoken
the words to pull them back?
Or is it selfish—
to say their leaving left nothing
but heartache behind?
No one truly understands suicide
until they stand before its purpose,
its reasoning.
Sometimes I think
we should check in with the happy ones—
the ones who have already decided their future,
their mask hiding clues
no one knows how to see.
Choosing death is not giving up.
It’s a solution
to suffering too heavy to bear.
In that moment
they don’t think of others.
It isn’t about anyone else.
It’s theirs.
And when a note leaves only a nod,
take it as such.
No one deserves the reasons why.
Be grateful your friend
found the peace and quiet
they could not find here.
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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John Lariviere Poem
A dispute among them
Selfish favorite three
What has happened?
Causing such ruckus
Blatantly oblivious
Service to their ideals
I forgot they were me.
Except death is inevitable.
They return to the dispute
Soldier on forge ahead
As I try to keep quiet
These famous three
Not a thinker amongst them
Lacking riveting appeal
And authentic Belonging
I forgot they are me again
Except Death, he is something.
Mostly annoying and boring
The other two are the main reasons.
For taking medications
So many medications
That doesn't work, evidently.
Her shrill voice gets too loud.
Doubling up dosing makes
Turns shrill into whispering
As I've stated numerous times
It's worse than the screaming
My curiosity began to fade.
I'll get back to my writing.
Better than medications
So many medications
The famous three
ing pestiferous three
Copyright © John Lariviere | Year Posted 2025
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