The thing that keeps people alive
Is often not some miracle cure
Comprised of pills, mysterious vials of liquid,
Or some new psychotherapeutic discovery,
But instead lies in the simple act
Of people not leaving.
Leaving leads to forgetting,
Forgetting leads to not caring,
And, not caring, you will lose
All emotional attachment to what is left.
I have been saved many times by people's not leaving.
I feel, however, it's only fair to note
That if you, my friend, were to leave,
I truly believe you'd be happy.
No need to gloss it over-
Just imagine, for your own sake,
The dreams you could fulfil,
The achievements you could make,
And the places you could go
Without me.
If you were to leave
But should return before you've forgotten,
I'd like to console you by letting you know,
That I probably died in peace.
No need too dwell on what caused it-
What difference does it really make
If I succumb to depression, or cancer,
Or some unknown cause in my sleep?
I ask for no grand array of flowers at my funeral-
Such displays are best reserved for the living.
Perhaps some bluebells placed over my body though;
The perfect symbol; a small array of beauty,
Just enough to be noticed, achieving nothing in particular,
Heads hung low, no longer able to reach, as they once did, for the sky,
Epitomising the temporary fragility of life
With their easily stomped on, chewed up,
Beaten, and then forgotten little bodies;
They're an epitaph in their own right.
No other physical memorials are needed.
No headstone, no need for anything
To be named after me.
Much easier to cry whatever tears
Need to be cried at that point,
And leave.
If you find the emotional attachment doesn't fade,
And you really feel you need some thing,
Some physical presence to remind you of me,
*Then for god's sake don't make it something
That dresses me up as some kind of plaster saint!*
Instead choose something more meaningful and lasting
Like a cardboard box,
Or the smell of paint.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
The thing that keeps people alive
Is often not some miracle cure
Comprised of pills, mysterious vials of liquid,
Or some new psychotherapeutic discovery,
But instead lies in the simple act
Of people not leaving.
Leaving leads to forgetting,
Forgetting leads to not caring,
And, not caring, you will lose
All emotional attachment to what is left.
I have been saved many times by people's not leaving.
I feel, however, it's only fair to note
That if you, my friend, were to leave,
I truly believe you'd be happy.
No need to gloss it over-
Just imagine, for your own sake,
The dreams you could fulfil,
The achievements you could make,
And the places you could go
Without me.
If you were to leave
But should return before you've forgotten,
I'd like to console you by letting you know,
That I probably died in peace.
No need too dwell on what caused it-
What difference does it really make
If I succumb to depression, or cancer,
Or some unknown cause in my sleep?
I ask for no grand array of flowers at my funeral-
Such displays are best reserved for the living.
Perhaps some bluebells placed over my body though;
The perfect symbol; a small array of beauty,
Just enough to be noticed, achieving nothing in particular,
Heads hung low, no longer able to reach, as they once did, for the sky,
Epitomising the temporary fragility of life
With their easily stomped on, chewed up,
Beaten, and then forgotten little bodies;
They're an epitaph in their own right.
No other physical memorials are needed.
No headstone, no need for anything
To be named after me.
Much easier to cry whatever tears
Need to be cried at that point,
And leave.
If you find the emotional attachment doesn't fade,
And you really feel you need some thing,
Some physical presence to remind you of me,
*Then for god's sake don't make it something
That dresses me up as some kind of plaster saint!*
Instead choose something more meaningful and lasting
Like a cardboard box,
Or the smell of paint.
