Why are people born, brought to bear pain,
or pain built and barred "burying" we barbarians?
You would think cavemen could sing more than
Grunts--open your mouths and voice the ears!
The frags hum louder than your joyous day,
a time you sprint from gas and gears.
I'd like to see that, please my men,
so I often--always--ask us, "When?"

It's difficult to breathe when you're peeved a private lung, 

and hard enough to swallow without knowing the food is done. 

I'd beg for you to speak if you could force the dryness down,
but it's hard without a tongue to make the voice of yours be found.

Just lick your lips and swipe that frown,
we'll hear the smile and see the sound.

If I make it to heaven, I imagine
limping to the clouds with a collapse coughing air.
Whispering words sung high, swung low without fear,
with the beauty of all tone, coasting and floating,
and then finding a place to hide in everyone's ears.

If I make it to heaven, I imagine
falling short to settle fine fit.
Letting my body by hip hit the pit,
burning with higher words singed across my lips,
and clawing out of my throat, a voice that beats the paining itch,
"Be it far from me to quit, but flaws may be too hard to fix."

If I make it to heaven, I imagine
I will make an imperfect angel, wings slouched in rest by my sides.
Eye color will stay, green will have stuck the pull
but my shine will grow lackluster, and wither on a whim.
Of what I'm made, will be the rule,
not something figured, physically mustered!
In those who can see and tender the day,
are those who should be, accepted right in.

If I make it to heaven, I know
I will realize that I've already been.
For my life here on earth, prized at sole worth and soul,
was shared heavenly, felt heavily
by all the love that I heard, and all far and close
that I've given and told.