Only Half Way There

My older brother received a call at two pm on a Thursday, That his roommate from college And best friend from high school; Overdosed and died, Last Wednesday night. My brother is 25 years old. He missed three days of work, sat at home in the dark, And cried for the first time in six months. This is not poetry. My father is very, very sick. He sleeps for seven hours, To build up a half hour of strength, Just so he can pick me up from school. He hasn’t been well in over a year. And still, He prays every night, “Thank you God, for making this happen to me, and not my children.” I am swallowed in fear, That soon enough, he will go to bed, And never wake up. This is not poetry. There are thousands of people, fighting cancer, and war, and death, just to have one more day, In hopes that it will get better. And still, You people glorify sadness, and long for your death, because apparently life, is just too much of a burden. Wake up, your ignorance is sickening. Your life is thousands of times more beautiful, Than your death will be.

It feels good to think about you when I’m warm in bed. I feel as if you’re curled up there beside me, fast asleep. And I think how great it would be if it were true.

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