I die daily, I think i am in love with death,
It is becoming sweet, much like rotten cabbage.
Wisdom Of greats, is burning my soul.
Every shriek from crowd I listen,
Calls me ass hole.
Two times in winter I passed my death certificate,
never in autumn, never in spring
Once in rainy, and thrice i summer i became wet.
Wet in blood of royal blue.
I wished I should have died in Honolulu.
Qoutes misqoutes marks my life,
Treasures of pain, kept it alight.
I never ran for rum, never for money,
Ladies never sang in my harem,
My own desires were my sour honey.
I talk of my death, and I still live.
I think I am wierd, and feel wired till death.
When I sleep, when I dream, then I sweat.
I plead myself for an honest death.
I despise me giving myself a daiy threat.
My last wish is for my 11th hour,
when there will be no stone to unturn,
no iota to make my life more complex.
I want to stab myself and my fears.
Which made me write this poem in tears.