Bad touching the good

i try not to touch myself
but it seems like a reflex.
my head says no to
an action of yes.
i’m told it is bad,
but why does it feel
so good? they can’t say.
well, they can,
but if they were to say,
they would have no
reason to say otherwise.

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Death marks beauty

is death taboo?
should it be taboo?
it hasn’t been until i’ve aged
that death has been a topical subject.
we gloss over it.
we’re not to dwell on it.
but why not?
is it not a natural part of existence?
should we not teach what we grow
of its inexorable demise?
why not teach a acceptance
of ones own end,
instead of cushioning it with poesy?
buying into the notion of
slowing degeneration,
we’ve allowed a lie.
we see the inevitable
but we powder away it’s
unequivocal presence.
it’s only when we wash our face
that we see truly what we are.