Poetry

We all die

• from the pen of someone who dies and admits •

It’s all about deaths. not singular, but plural.
we all die. everyday. multiple times. sometimes a little;
sometimes a little more. sometimes we’re too busy to notice;
sometimes we fail to admit. but we die. and what those deaths
do is that they alienate us (tho’ momentarily) from everyone
around us; crush us in an annihilating manner by making us
crush ourselves by believing that we’re unwanted & unimportant;
kill us in shards, leaving but a little in us alive
(not lively, merely viable) so that the shards don’t go waste.
ah! it’s life’s way of making sure that you pay off your debt
to destiny to die a zillion times before you actually
get to die.

• we all die •

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