The most unfair thing I was ever taught
In my sorry little life,
Is that death is the only thing you can rely upon.

I was most upset to find that I was not transcendent
To all those fools
That succumed to the hands of death before me.

Why, I could kick and scream,
I could crawl and plead
But I still must make my merry little way

Back into the Earth I was born from.

And so life - what of it?
I know that I shall grow up and become an adult
And therefore more childish with each day.

And so why should I don those suits
That stifle my throat
And choke my idea of ‘I’?

Noon is the most sublime time
To emerge from dreams
and to be greeted by the sun

And not blaring alarms,
or bleeting chidren.
Thus, I yearn to write.

Not out of skill
And certainly not out of profit,
But to take back all of those moments

with my back upon the soil.
For when I am feeble and when I am spent,
I know by now that I shall regret

Not the moments with empty pockets
But the world that I lost
In a restless rush,
In a useless toil.