I have already outlived my father, my grandfather,
and all the generations that came before them,
but I still barely scrape over the average life expectancy in this country.
Isn’t it ironic how I can surpass decades worth life quality and still not be good enough?
I am an over-achieving warrior in a land full of martyrs,
and I still believe that my victory is my choice.
Death is a funny thing, isn’t it,
a lottery ticket for a community
that has spent its entire life below the poverty line.
Everyone is bound to swarm around the sign-up sheets,
nobody cares about the terms and conditions attached
because if there’s a pot of gold at the end of the tunnel, take me there.
I lost 5 friends to Death.
Death is the new kid in class everybody wants to be friends with,
with means and methods to lure naïve minds in,
all my efforts were in vain, there was nothing I could have done.
Death came slow and painful, hunting one friend after the other,
until I was the last mind standing with nothing to hold onto but myself.
Sometimes I wonder, when my weak knees finally give way,
will death choose to let me be part of his group,
or will my persistence to live never let me die?