When I Die

When I die, I want people to look back at my past years,

Instead of into unknown futures, shedding vain tears,

On their black clothing in a somber atmosphere,

Placing wilted flowers while I'm already dead here.



When I die, I want stories told by people who came,

Instead of by some pastor who never knew my first name,

Spewing pre-written sentences of embellished words,

When he hasn't witnessed any part of my life, seen nor heard.



Although I appear a Hypochondriac, or morbidly obscene,

To be bringing up such things at the age of seventeen,

Millions of thoughts came along when I have pondered,

This is just a darker one that I have wondered.



I know how this seems like I may be insane,

and that I might let go of the electrified chain,

of murder and starvation that will never cease to end,

My patience is about to break, never will mend again.



Yet, in this life, I am truly happy,

I have almost all I could ever want, without getting sappy,

This isn't some formulated melancholy goodbye,

Just a couple thoughts about when I die.