ii: Dying From Life, Living In Death

When you're eleven years old
waiting for sleep each night to bring
an end to one more day, reposed as a
corpse at a wake in a funeral home where
grieving family and saddened classmates bring
empty goodbyes while whispering regrets,
never while living would even one try;
this is as good as it ever can get
and the norm becomes
meaningless as the
blissful void of
dream...

Prayers  Prayers
I too am dead

I have a coffin
for a bed

I have a pillow
beneath my head

I lie in sick
and woeful dread

And now my hearse
will mount the hill

I have no power
nor a will

The birds are gone
the trees are still

For I am gone
the sun won’t shine

I cannot talk
I am declined

It’s late

And all loved things are gone
I wait in darkness all alone

Until I turn to dust and bone
How quiet it has grown...

This was the first poem I ever wrote.
I filled a small notebook with similar writings.
Death and dying have populated my thoughts since
I can remember and I have never thought twice about it.


And every night,
at the part where she
sobbed uncontrollably over
having treated me so terribly,
I got the only consolation I could...