im scared of dying
although everyone has done it
and we all have it in common
one day you and i
will be the dirt
and whats etched onto our stones
wont matter to our cold-to-touch hearts
our lungs wont puff cigarettes or posioned air
in fact we wont breathe at all
just the abyss of our memories swelling nothingness
all of the world left behind
yet you're buried into it
with everyone else that has ever lived
if there is an after life
i hope to see gogh and plath
because i belong with people like them
and my whole life i'll be searching
for souls like mine
i know i am hopeless yet hopeful at the same messy, indecisive time
the fear of death
is not only the fear of pain
and the road less traveled afterwards
it's the fear of dying not knowing myself
and being trapped forever inside
the box i always contained myself in
and still feeling cricks in my neck
from not loving myself enough
when people tell you
that it's inevitable and you should "just get over it"
do they realise how impossible that is
for a broken heart like me?
i am a derailed train and a puzzle piece no one understands
and i am a writer who suffers for art and because i am this....
this mess of a person
not even living
i just walk
and talk
and breathe
sometimes exhaling with a sigh
it pains me to think that by the time
death is knocking on my door
i still will not have lived