When I reach the door step of death
will I feel the warm embrace of nothing
so hollow its heavy so big I cry-
and what should I do? when I get there
dust dandruff off shoulders, wipe shoes on the face of welcome and warmth-
maybe i'll just be polite ring the doorbell
but the confronting of my own fate brings me no comfort
so instead i've decided to slip a note under the door.
Subtle but still assertive. I am waiting. I am here.

This anticipation it's killing me
it's so cliche and oh i'm not like the others
i'm so different you wouldn't even notice
the way my eyes look at everything but nothing.

The mountain of energy that sits in the hole of my chest
just spent thinking and thinking and tormenting itself. Boiling down, evaporating. Still it never runs out.

I wonder. Maybe i'm just making a big kafuffle. Maybe I make a scene. I will die and death is death, so I should be entitled to something. Just bust through the door not thinking. Right?
Maybe I should walk in yelling. Take me! it's time I guess?

Something about that seems right. To leave fighting. Though no one wants pain, and like they say never shoot the messenger.

I shall wait and see. I guess for now a small knock would suffice.