From the day we are born
we are waiting,
waiting to die,
waiting for death,
to proclaim it’s victory
Children grow up
much too swiftly
become mature
watch their bodies ripen.
But in the midst of growth
the line between
progress and decay
becomes blurred
Is this the prettiest you will ever be?
Right after puberty
your hips and breast lose
the firmness you just now
have begun to love
What is the use in living,
in breathing in everybody’s
decaying odours
as our bodies
slowly and surely
work their way to the grave
From the day we are born
We are waiting
Waiting for this skin
to lose its elasticity,
waiting for wrinkles
(the marks of pain) or
bags under our eyes
to paint our faces insane
.
.
.
I’d rather spend my dying time being unborn
Then waiting for death to overpower me
Demise is always there, like the flesh we are born in
Though sometimes I wished I had a different form
One less prone to decay
But death must leave its mark
And everyone’s waiting
Adding your comment:
. Now I just dont even look
.
