Poetry

More Time

I don't want to yet,

I'm not ready.

I haven't even done anything I planed to do.

Get married, have kids, get a job doing something I enjoy.

I never did any of that,

So surely my time hasn't come.

But, what if it has?

What will be waiting for me?

A dark, empty nothingness, or is it more than that?

Does it all depend on my actions?

Or is it something greater?

There must be someone who can tell me, someone who can save me.

I'm so frightened of my destiny.

I wish I knew what was going on.

I didn't ask for this, slow and painful destruction.

It was a gift, from one of the parents I never met.

I've been told it was a gift that I was born alive, but they have no idea.

I wish I was a stillborn, then I wouldn't be suffering right now.

I was born and given away.

My parents didn't want a kid, so they didn't care where I ended up.

Or how I ended up.

I guess I'll never get to thank them now, I'll never get to congratulate them for their amazing offspring.

But all I can do is lay here, in this white linen grave for the living.

Where they put you when there is no hope left for life.

And most of the ones they put here have lived full lives, but not me.

I didn't get that privilege, and I never will now.

All I can do now is hold on to what life I have left, and hope.

Hope that I will go somewhere.

Hope that my life meant something.

That I was more then that kid you saw on the street.

But I'll never know now, will I?

I'll just lay in my death bed, waiting.

For something, or for someone.

I'm scared of what comes next.

I'm not ready, not yet

But I feel it.

I know, my time has come.

I'm slowly letting go, but I don't want this.

I need more time.

I don't want to die.