Can I die now?
Have I touched
Enough lives?
Can I go home
Now?
There would
Be such a
Grand funeral
A party
Ending up
With naked
Bodies making
Love,
Comforting
One another,
While they
Are still
Young enough
To enjoy
Such pleasures
Without the
Nurses pulling
80 and 90
Year olds
Out of each
Others rooms…
Everyone's
Still alive
To celebrate
My death.
My life.
I'm not
Getting paid
To be this
Beautiful soul,
So loved
And adored,
But rarely
Made love to.
Like one of
The pretty people,
No one approaches
Me because
They make up
Excuses in their heads
As to why
They shouldn't
Even bother
Asking.
They beat
Themselves
To the punch
And counted
Themselves
Out.
Haven't I made
Enough of
A difference?
I cleaned her
Kitchen.
I wrote the
Poems.
I did the chalk art.
I threw the parties,
And raised
The money.
I finished my
Degree.
I beat the odds.
I lived longer
Than they said
I should.
There is enough
For everyone
I've left
Behind…
So I can go
On and go
Home.
Right?
There's no
Job for me
To be paid for
Being who I am.
Would the world
Really be better
If I stayed
And worked in
A cubicle farm?
Died slowly,
Like before
School?
Till all this
Light and love
And greatness
Were no more
Than a faded
Memory?
OR
Would it be better
If I stayed
And played it out
A little longer?
Wrote a few
More poems,
Maybe wrote
A book,
Did more chalk art,
Threw bigger
Better parties,
Raised more money,
Shared more words
And small deeds
Of kindness,
Even if the world
Pays people
Disproportionately?
I could change that
Couldn't I?
Couldn't we?
