At least once a day, the thought that I want to die will enter through a worm hole in my brain.
The pain in my toes is relayed to my central nervous center through the numbness of my feet.
The fact that I can't chew a piece of steak or speak without gluing in my front teeth provides only the meekest of smiles to greet the new dawn.
Then there are the two tumors on my head that tick like a quality timepiece with only one hand working and all the while it has been me and not them, wearing the suicide vest set to explode should anyone who loves me try and dial my death on a cheap cell phone by asking if there is a doctor in the house.
I would consider myself lucky to meet death in the same way that I first met the Lord; sitting in a foxhole with a book of poems written by Malaria.
I would give my right nut not to suffer any longer and yet I choose to suffer rather than quit this game. And folding this piss poor hand I was dealt by what others see as my destiny.
I awaken every morning and still open the breakfast menu wishing to order the ham with eggs over easy; only to find that it is true...the dead do eat their own...
But fear not.
All is not hopeless because
We can still choose to live forever you and I...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.