During A Night Party I Talk About Death

and the they do not like it.
who likes it?
no one.
i keep on talking
about death
i am drunk
and they leave me
and they tell
each other
that this man
is sick, that this man
is morbid
that this man is inappropriate
for our night out
of denial
and coping up
with what we are really
bound to.

on the other hand
they are right
they are not dying
it is somebody else
and it is just somebody else's business
not theirs

or maybe just mine
wanting too to
get rid of its little touches
on my nape
on early dawns
when i think about
life and
its beautiful memories
when life is so beautiful
when you
finally accept
that you are
dying.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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