You’ve scribbled a note or two, maybe even more.
It’s all rehearsed, the day you finally vacate the body.
But the writing is too sloppy, no matter how you try to
explain it, they’ll never quite understand. So you
ball up the paper and continue to drag.
And drag.
And drag.
There is always that voice following you down the
hall, saying, “Just do it. What are you waiting for?”
And although you try to ignore it — part of you listens.
It’s soothing, like hearing the dark oceans churn
inside of a conch shell, and how you long to drown
in those rip currents.
Your feet, they are heavy from supporting a complex
architecture. So many stories, so many vacant rooms,
and the elevator is always caught in your throat.
The same way a young girl marvels about her
wedding day, you visualize your funeral. But the
truth of the matter is, you’ll never attend it.
However, they will: your mother dressed in black,
the stone expression on your father’s face. They
will be left behind, piecing together the continents
of a world that could’ve been.
All that will be left is the remnants of a dead hurricane,
but instead of rain, tears will drench the soil. Nothing
will grow, nothing will prosper.
So before you end it, think of them, and imagine the
smell of cinnamon, meeting new people and the leaves
of an autumn tree. Midnight trips to the city, sleeping in
late, the taste of strawberries and counting stars.
Yes, it’s always easier to die…
but it’s better if you try.


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I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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