And if I am the only one who understands myself,
I will have to go through life breaking my dreams down into pill sized boxes,
Just enough light to ingest in under thirty five minutes.
No required thought beyond whats for dinner,
And whose adultery, speared across a TV screen,
is making our lives more colorful.
Just enough to ignore,
Just enough to pass off as unboxed emotion.
Just enough to make me want to explode into thirty five different shades of blue,
One for every whisper of lapse.
For every second of unimaginative breathing.
And if I had thirty five lives,
I’d use at least half of them to understand the feeling of death.
A train,
A fall?
A sudden relapse of disease,
Or an animal with no other reason to live then to live.
I could, maybe if my soul permits,
Die the romantic way of stealing the last breath from someone else.
A life for a life, a death for a death,
Thirty five people crying at my funeral,
And not one of them
Ever
Understood
Me.