u/Imaginary_Stable5373

I can hear some eye-rolling already, but this is nothing more than an experiment to test a hypothesis, i.e. that certain astrological 'sun' signs are more susceptible to being highly sensitive.

Of course, there are other placements in one's natal chart that can influence the sun sign significantly.

I'm just curious to see what responses I get from people, if they are aware of anything more than their zodiac sign.

I'll start the ball rolling by saying that the most significant cluster of heavenly bodies fall in my Sun sign, which falls in Pisces (my third house), where it's joined by Jupiter, Mercury and Chiron.

Anyone else who muses over these kinds of issues is more than welcome to come and muse with me 😄

No matter what I do, no matter what I say,

All my good intentions always seem to go astray.

I must be on the road to hell where good intentions lead,

I’ve paved the road all by myself coz I paid myself no heed.

I really should know better, what mayhem waits ahead.

Good sense fell by the wayside for grand plans in my head.

I thought I could do better, for me and others, too.

But it seems I got it wrong, again, and that is nothing new.

It seems my life is nothing but a bunch of epic fails.

And, one by one, I hammer in, all of my coffin nails.

I’ve gone ahead and dug my grave the standard “six foot under”.

But a standard fathom’s depth’s can't cover every single blunder.

To hide it deep enough for all, I’d have to be a miner.

And dig a hole that goes so deep it reaches clear to China!

* Disclaimer: This poem also serves as a declaration and admission to the Almighty, and all who read it, that I am far from perfect, I am a sinner and am not hiding that fact from anyone. I'm owning whatever I may have done and am willing to be held responsible and accountable for any hurt I may have ever caused, knowingly or not. I also ask forgiveness but do not expect to receive it unless it.

I do not purport to know anything about poetry or prose; to be honest, I don't really 'get' most poetry... my brain just doesn't think along those lines.

This doesn't mean to say that I'm not literate and cannot write. I'm more attuned to writing scientific assignments, or long and boring letters.

However, almost four years ago I wanted to stretch my writing skills and did a bit of research on the history of haiku, stemming from wanting to correctly remember the format of this form of writing (for the sake of trivia).

After reading up on haiku, I decided to write a haiku about it. I don't know if I have found the right group of people with whom to share my words, but it's as good a place as any to reveal my attempt.

This is my effort, for your considered opinions:

A Short Story of Haiku, in Haiku:

The sixteen hundreds.

The land of the rising sun.

New poems began.

No rhyme but reason,

written for any season

for all to enjoy.

Using three numbers,

five, seven, another five,

haiku is written.

First came the haikai,

a funny form of renga.

Verses all are linked.

Then came the hokku

to set the tone and the feel.

The subject matter.

Season, time or day,

quaint landmarks, abounding seas

set the story’s scene.

But the first rules were

only choosing one season

to bring forth feelings.

Till Tokugawa,

when haiku rose in stature

to the art it is.

The art of haiku

is to evoke deep feeling

in very few words.

Bashō, the master,

tweaked haiku while in Edo.

One six seven 0s.

No more old haiku.

The new form made popular,

Japan embraced it.

Buson and Issa

were masters in their own rights.

Seventeen hundreds.

The eighteen hundreds

saw haiku change yet again.

All subjects fair game.

Late that century

Masaoka Shiki ruled

with two more masters.

Nineteenth century,

Takahama Kyoshi

was so prolific.

The nineteen hundreds,

for one Kawahigashi

Hekigotō, bow.

The Imagists, too,

in early nineteen hundreds

influenced the art.

After World War Two

haiku left Japanese land

in foreign language.

Into two thousand,

millions are writing haiku

all around the world.

Quizzical nature,

short on words, long on meaning,

haiku still survives.

Your input is most welcome and I thank all readers, in advance, for giving of your time to ponder my story.

Who’s gonna miss me when I’m dead and gone?

No-one, that is, until something goes wrong.

There’ll be no-one to listen, and no-one to blame,

No soft place to fall, and no-one to shame.

Who’s gonna miss me when I’m no longer here,

No-one will miss me coz they really don’t care.

While I’m living and breathing you stay far away,

Putting off contact for just one more day.

You know that it hurts me but you can’t figure why,

Your distant disdain makes me sit down and cry.

You know of my anguish and know of my fears,

Yet you like being able to drive me to tears.

I know that you’re grown, and you live far away,

And that is just how things are going to stay.

You know that it kills me with every breath,

But you’ll withhold your love right up until my death.

Words are so strong, and you know that it’s true,

All your life, I’ve said so many loving ones to you.

Words speak loud, but actions, they yell,

Your actions to me tell me, “Fuck off to Hell!”

You barely put up with me, the berth is kept wide,

When you finally touch base it’s because you’re obliged.

We used to have fun, and talk, and be friends,

And I thought that’s how it’d be ‘til the end.

But best laid plans of mice and men,

Am I ever going to see you again?

In a manner where tears of joy can be shed,

Instead of in mourning coz somebody’s dead?

I’m sorry that I left you to go out to work,

And got fucked up by the world’s biggest jerk.

I’m sorry I’m broken, beyond all repair,

That is, in part, because you do not care.

I’m hurt, and it cuts me right down to the bone,

That you seem to like making me feel all alone.

For decades you were a reason for me to keep giving,

But you now give me no reason for living.

I thought that I was easy to please,

It seems that I’m an abominable beast.

My demands of minutes of your time, in a block,

Are so abhorrent that it causes great shock.

I don’t know what more it is I can do,

To beg, implore and beseech to get through.

I’ve always loved you, through good times and lack,

I guess I assumed that you’d give me that back.

But what are shared genes but a helical chain?

Do those really bind, or are they inherited pain?

To cut those bonds is for only you to choose,

But I can tell you, right now, that you will also lose.

And it won’t be ‘til the day that I finally depart,

That you’ll feel that bit of me, hiding inside your heart.

And you will hear me in your head, and see me in your mind,

And the weight of it will hit you, that you had not been so kind.

I’m sorry that I’m broken, and I’m not who you once knew,

But, then again, it’s fair to say it’s the same for me, with you.

I’ve tried so hard to reconnect; different but the same,

But it’s hard to conceive that we share our last name.

It’s getting so much harder for me to dig down deep,

And find the love to give to you that I know you will not keep.

And, thus, it seems that I should stop all attempts to fight it,

That your love for me does not exist, and mine is unrequited.

Am I a friend or am I a foe?

The answer to this I deserve to know.

Am I the one or am I the other?

Oh, I’m nothing at all...

... I was merely your Mother 😞

Before anyone gets up in arms about the title of this post, I readily admit to the phenomenon known as "Widow's Fire".

I was widowed a month ago, today, and this unholy urge for sex (not intimacy... just raw sex intended for my satisfaction alone) within days of watching him dying slowly and painfully.

He was my one and only husband, of 40 years, but I experienced the very same thing in 2008 when both of my parents died a matter of months apart. The only difference was the fact that I had my husband there to put out the fire.

It seems to be a very common thing when someone close to you dies; it would appear to be an inbuilt biological mechanism that urges sexually mature to procreate in order to keep the species alive, whether or not those adults are past the point of being able to reproduce.

It's also an affirmation or life (so I'm told), but I find that point of view to be a little hollow.

My problem is wanting to scratch that itch, but not wanting physical contact with another man. It's not that I'd be disloyal to hubby... we had an incredible sex life for a long time before he got sick.

And I know that the itch isn't going to go away by itself.

I don't go out, I'm old and I'm grieving. Where does find a man fit for purpose out in the boonies here, even if I have to pay for it?

The mixture of emotions is like a blender going off in both my head and heart, simultaneously... and it's not pretty or appetising.

So, to all you widows out there, I feel the agony wanting to be transformed into ecstasy and I know it's real, but grief just doesn't happen to be that selective when it comes to whoever's door it shows up in, in this guise.

If anyone has an helpful suggestions on how to go about getting this constant urge without ruining what's left of my miserable life, I'd be grateful for any and all advice.

Much love to you all ❤️