Can evil be measured
By mideeds themselves?
Or is it by how one acts
When under attack
Whether they stood strong or fell?

Because I tend to fall
I do not stand tall
When pressure comes to face me

I crumble and cry
Now with tears in my eyes
I ask you, am I evil?

I lash out when I'm mad
Try to fight when I'm sad
And I lose myself in the bottle

I take drugs if I can find them
And refuse to sing divine hymns
A heretic, a drunk, but evil?

I hate who I am
And I hate what I do
Does that qualify as repentant?

But I'll just do the same thing
Feel the same sting
For self destruction is truly my penchant

I look Death in the face every day.
He sits upon my shoulder
and I can see him in the mirror.
He no longer frightens me though,
I have grown used to his presence.
As he whispers in my ear
I recall a time it would scare me,
however now it illicits comfort.
Nothing can be permanent,
not even life.
Not anger, not sadness,
nor joy, nor fright.
None of that matters
no one cares, in the end.
So now I tend to consider
Death as a friend

Yes things are stressful,
yes i get bored,
but my friend Death reminds me;
everyone's life is a chore

I can still feel her hand
On my shoulder
She's face down
To my right
With her arm
At ninety degrees
Her hand, not gripping
But laying
Embracing
Where my arm meets my chest

I lay to her left
But now firm on the floor
With the ceiling light off
And only a half closed door

But the warmth on my shoulder
Even just to remember
Makes it comfortable enough
That I can sleep where ever

I am going to a party
But for what I do not know
Perhaps a friend is getting older
Or feels it's time to go
But I am going to a party
Nonetheless
And I hope that i will find
Good friends, good talk, good wine, and good thoughts

I now approach the door
With a gift box in my hand
And I begin to realize
Exactly where I am
Marble floors are painted
With dew drop pews, blacks, and navy blues
The preacher barks the same old tune
of "Dust to Dust"
"He's gone too soon"

So naturally, with me being me,
In my green button down
And carpenter's jeans
I spin to leave, but let out a squeak

Everybody turns to see
The fool with the present
Who seems to have passed
Right by without knowing
What he walked into would be

What would you do?
Because my reaction can't be beat
I quite simply dropped the box
And ran down the street