I know the silence will swallow
every Why me? anyway.
So why bother? Besides,
Im not dead yet, even though
every passing day stills the heart and
steals the breath.
One day less.
They said I had a year left.
I wondered what to do? Hurry?
Get angry at the calendar?
I did. Time still refused to stop.
So I seem braver now.
Part of it is, yes,
the finger to the consequences,
and some of it is that
what people think and all my
insecure little hang ups,
seem unimportant next to
the relentless tick.
You wonder what I do?
I throw words against oblivion
Writing is the only thing I hurry with.
Chasing masterpiece or epitaph.
I want to get published before well,
But even if not I wouldnt be sad.
The words will stay behind anyhow
