We are only here to die.
All the blood sweat and tears you put into running your first marathon
That award winning book you wrote that captured the heart of millions of children
All the money that you won from winning the lottery...
Means nothing.
It all means nothing.
All of this...

Means nothing.

We are only here to die.
But it's the preparation that decides
What will happen after life.
The choices that you make in life will decide your fate after life

Which is death.

Mami was my grandmother.
Was.
Because she's dead.
She died October 20th.
The day after my best friend's birthday party.
The day after a boy said i was pretty.

I cried, of course,
but as the days passed i realized i wasn't so sad.
And that made me really angry.
How couldn't be sad?
What was wrong with me?

I remember this day when she wrote my name on a notebook.
She wanted to talk to me.
She said she was sorry about what happened.
Long story.

I remember when she had the stroke.
It was my brother's birthday and she was so happy on the phone.
Mom was smoothing my hair and my aunt called.
I remember the lost look in her eyes.
I remember my sister crying.
I remember telling my brother on the phone.
I remember crying.
But i can't remember was was the last thing she said to me.
And that's ****** up.

After she died i understood my mixed feelings.
I miss my grandmother.
But the lady in the bed of a ****** hospital wasn't my grandmother.
I know it sounds mean.
But it's the truth.

There's something missing in this heap of hearts.
i'd happily admit he'd fall apart
without his special taste of what was to come
after every horror night he'd slept,
beauty truthful, I wish i'd seen
his glory days, our glory days
we breathe as one, and there's music to come -
but an unstrung guitar would yearn for it.
Something like diamonds or vague metaphors
like years of friends and friendly enemies that struck a bone like a tattooed hand a chord
something like that which fills the soul of rueful smiles and before they left -
he knew that was where he took his breath.
One day I'll come to understand why deprivation is my vice and virtue
and why good things come to those who forget -
but for now its grief for ghosts and phantom hands left unheld
that keeps us both waking during the night.

it's funny how mom complains of me using my cellphone at dinner,
but she doesn't stop me.
it's funny how my math teacher said i have a bad attitude,
but he didn't explain the excersises to me because i didn't had the book.
it's funny how last year the whole class hated the priest,
but now he's dead everybody thinks of him as a saint.
it's funny how that sophomore boy used to talk to me all the time,
but now claims he doesn't know who i am.
it's funny how much i wanted to go out as a kid,
but now my body hurts by the idea of getting out of bed.

hope it stills funny when i'm dead.

thousands of kids enter the school
I crouch in the corner, trapped
my limbs shake and my heart races

my mom wants to buy a new purse
I shrink away, run to the door
my legs wont move but my mind runs

my best friend didn't call me back
does she need help? does she hate me?
my last meal is being flushed away

*Generalized Anxiety