yeah it's 3:59 in the morning,
so what? there's ink in my veins and
a bottle of ***** in my system.
I'm bleeding novels here
and it's a rare blood type I've got.

The words pour from severed wounds
and stain the carpet, bed sheets,
the counter tops and floor tiles.
shrieks from my roommate,
"what the hell's going on?!
someone call an ambulance!"

(darkness)

yeah it's 7:03 in the morning,
so what? I woke up attached to a machine
and it wasn't even the government.
chuckles from the nurses,
"he's got a sense of humor this one"

every last letter fled my body
until I collapsed.
and suddenly, I understood
that death isn't about flowers, tombstones,
black dresses or sullen faces.
it's about the words that were left unsaid.