People die every day,
Going for a quick stroll,
Driving down the toll.
Fighting for freedom,
Chasing the high of a heavenly kingdom.
Alone with a gun to their head,
Surrounded in a hospital bed.
But not us,
After all, who would keep on living.
The spectators,
Listening to eulogies,
Lying about their character,
Living.
You and I, we can’t die, it’s not possible.
Until it is.

One day I’ll find the way to say it,

That I’ve found myself bit,
By a bug that detests the alone

That I’ve fallen into a great pit,
Whose four-letter name sets quite the tone

That I’ve experienced a cardiac fit,
As my heart’s upped and gone

Yet no way seems to carry enough wit,
To let my love for you be known

One day I’ll find the way to say it,
Even if only on my gravestone.

People often ask if I fear death,
I don’t.
I ask them if they fear life,
They don’t.
Then why is it should I dread universal finite,
When they are unafraid of temporary infinite,
For a life can’t exist without end,
Lest it be relegated mere existence

Busy busy busy Bee,
Oh, woe is me, that I must work tirelessly,
unraveling the inner beauty,
of something inherently devoid of any
attractive qualities.