When you're alive,
Every one is so busy with their lives,
They call maybe,
Once every two to three days,
Weeks months or even years,
But then they'll filled with tears,
When they hear,
A tragic event or cancer is near,
Then then,
They come to your ears,
With soft whispers of politeness,
Wishing this diagnosis never came up on you,
Then out of the blue, they show you who they really are,
The ministers pastors to the preachers,
Of the divine family,
Don't even have the divinity within them,
More like a curse of boils,
That war is to a victors spoils,
Losers they are, good karma doesn't need a defense,
Only bad ones do,
So let me tell you, try to count the days of your life on all ten fingers,
You'll be dead before you even count,
You only praise on a paramount,
When your times almost,
Like a drip of water wenching it's way through the concrete,
That last drop, to the last breath,
And when that's over,
The comedy begins,
Family and friends rush in, to say good things about you, how great you are how much you influenced them,
But when you were alive in your mudded form,
They cursed you belittled you,
Kept there precious earthly matters, to themselves,
They could have help, but the selfishness of this world is increasing,
And natural love is decreasing,
When I'm gone, don't play me song,
Don't cry, don't sigh,
No need for that, for I won't hear it, I'll just be a hard shelled sand body,
Waiting to rot,
My eyes are closed, my purple suit, is looking nice with my hands clutched,
No need for shades, my eyelids see for me,
And by then you'll get to know me,