I do not die well.
They know this.
They've tested blood
and followed the tears
to find nothing signifying
ashes, dust, and embers.
They have found my weaknesses,
and seen my strength combat joy.
They know I do not die well.
The throbbing aches and shrinking
rest on the dark side of the moon -
that silent, somber place
where you're always alone
but they know where you are,
sitting in your crater,
begging a powerless god
to let you die soon. Die well. Die at all.
Author notes
I don't think it's supposed to be a poem, it's just attempting to write anything.
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