Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
If I die young... Well, bring it on!
The contemptible lyrics spewing
From the radio burn my ears and
I think of death and how my dying
Is none of my business.
They'll dress me like a little girl,
In light colors, with pastels painted
Across my flaccid face.
My hair will be done up in Shirley Temple curls
And they'll place my glasses upon my face,
Even though my eyes will never see again.
My hands will be nicely folded,
My coffin will be made of pine,
But what I deserve is not a box buried six feet under.
I deserve a nice fire, to keep my spirit warm.
I deserve to be ashes spread across my favorite places.
If I die young, let the embers claim my body.
9-27-11
From the radio burn my ears and
I think of death and how my dying
Is none of my business.
They'll dress me like a little girl,
In light colors, with pastels painted
Across my flaccid face.
My hair will be done up in Shirley Temple curls
And they'll place my glasses upon my face,
Even though my eyes will never see again.
My hands will be nicely folded,
My coffin will be made of pine,
But what I deserve is not a box buried six feet under.
I deserve a nice fire, to keep my spirit warm.
I deserve to be ashes spread across my favorite places.
If I die young, let the embers claim my body.
9-27-11
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
If I die young... Well, bring it on!
If I die young... Well, bring it on!
