Morbid metaphor from a twisted poet?

gave my bistro away. I didn't intend to, but as they say, life's a bitch and then you die. I died.

It's not fair.

From Culdee Street, to my Mother's Mother; We’d packed our bags to escape the bubbling babbles that had boiled over, leaving the need to simmer in the two up and two down in Market Hill.

Riddled With It (20th April, 2004, 16.49pm) Faster than the sky moves, though it looks slow, standing on the surface, watching clouds from dry land;

No happy endings, only damaged goods and heart rendings (19th May 2008, 10.20pm) Watch me sleep, listen as I breathe For the last time, next to you, my soul keeps you close

This breath, this beat This fear, this heat. You feel, I see Storng love, for me. Don't go, stay here Smile big, hold dear. Don't think, just act No stories, all fact. You want, me too