Its not like a movie, there are no pretty sunsets and the like.
You do not feel like a new person, only the old one wont fit anymore.
There are people who realy care, and ones who help
out of obligation.
Hams and whole fried chickens in the fridge,
cookies and potato salad, a never ending steam of halmarks,
with everyone feeling guilty because they know saying sorry will
not cut it.
No one knows the heat the body generates, the pills the weakness, the yellowed skin, all of it hopeing to be unnoticed, so to simpely
slip out into gods hands.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem