I lie here now, dying in my old age; a withered old man, weathered and tired with nothing left to offer.
To ask for a glass of water is but a struggle in itself.
To breath, is but a struggle in itself
to use the restroom is but a memory from the past; the process is nothing more than a humiliating and demoralizing struggle in itself.
I use to rest my eyes with a faint snore.
Now, I hear the whispers from my family that either makes me question their love for me, or proves their love for me.
I'm coming up now. It's not hard to tell.
All I have to do is look in their knowing eys, and I know.
They think I'm a fighter, clinging for life; they are blind and do not see the truth.
I do not fight to stay in this state; in this pain; in this world.
In my life, I have sinned and prayed; I have been honest and lied; I have veen gentle and grumpy. I have denied God and found faith.
Where is my soul bound? I would like to believe I know, but I do not.
But I do know when I am gone, I will be nothing more than forgotten in the coming years.
TO wither away.
