Even the dead are documented
And no,
I don’t mean death certificates
I mean that
even in the days that they may have been tormented
Journals, notes, poems
Scattered across the floor of a cell
Words like these
Of someone you never would have known

Nonetheless
They were there
Sure they’re nothing but a pile of bones now
But literature is literature
In any form
And that’s only fair

No matter what you may say,
The dead always had
Something to say
Stories to tell
Songs to sing
Rain to dance in
Jokes to make

Just like us,
They were once
Young
Beautiful
And with a timer.

They had
Rights to fight for
People they’d die for
Poems for a girl he loved
Tears for the man who left
Feelings that remained suppressed
The struggle to find the will to simply get dressed



How can we claim
That someone is full of life
When every individual only has a certain amount of time
How can we claim
That there’s always a way out
When the pocket watch
The clock on the wall
The alarm clock that started it all

Just
Keeps
Ticking

Now what are you thinking?
Have you written enough?
Have you written too much?

But oh my friend,
Don’t worry,
Someone will cherish the words you wrote
The pictures that eventually yellowed as they got old
The scrapbooks
Random trinkets
Books you never read
Even when
You are dead

Because just like you and me,
The dead are documented
In a way that proves.
Everyone feels something
One way or another

So admit you’d be in ditch without them
Tell someone you love them
Do whatever it is you’ve always wondered
hold her
Touch her
Cry before her
Be vulnerable
Be free
Just so that
Maybe
Someone will see
Just before
Time
may
run
out