Poem 2.

We fear death for its unknown future,
Our names being picked from mid air,
We cry with the silence that surrounds us,
But we just can’t accept,
For the thing that’s no longer there.

We never really learn the lifespan of a frown,
Or how many years after a heartbeat stops,
Ones name will be found,
In conversations that are of our past paths.

But now I speak to you,
Don’t stand in front of my grave,
Staring down at my name,
With a face so sad
It makes birds mad.

Where were you,
When I was alive?
Where were you,
When I would thrive with life,
So bright it would blind every eye.

Now I speak to you,
My dear old friend,
Your soul hurt, cut and bruised,
From the pain I chose to give you,
Yes, I’m amused.

I confess forgive me,
Because it was me,
I slit my wrists with a knife,
While I smiled to god on my knees,
I smile because I know,
That life is the art of dying.

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