I have a book on my bed
that might never be read,
and the last of my thoughts
are anything except dead.

Does anyone wish for immortality
in the days of adulthood?
Is maturity a slow killing process
or just a way of inviting life inside?

It's nights like these
where I don't see
the point in anything.
For crying out loud, is there a point
other than the constant reminder
that life begins when you do?