The Aspiration in Death

To tell you the truth, many songs recently remind me of him. We had to write a poem today in class, and I wrote one about him and my teacher read it aloud and everyone looked at me as if I were insane for having her read it. Well I am sure it was just a slight case of momentary euphoria from getting it off my shoulders for the split second I heard it from anything but my own brain. In my brain it sounded dead, but in her melodic voice it sounded aspired. Aspiring, anything but the dead strings of lines and a single stanza I threw together. She whispered some, uttered some, and emphasized different words, making the poem seem alive, unlike he was. The poem was about him, she said
“Describe someone it can be someone you love, loved, or have aspired to love, you can write about if they inspire you, if they strengthen you or weaken you, if they can reduce you tears in a mere millisecond, or it’s as if they weren’t and aren’t there.”
As those words danced past her lips, I sighed, he was my only inspiration, mind you, a dead one, but an inspiration. Dead inspiration was always a quite depressing one, and yet, it always seemed to be the best. I am not exactly sure why, but I wrote about him, dead, the urn full of his ashes that I could hardly bear to stick my hand in a look twice. But I needed the reassurance that he was at least somewhere. And that was ashes in a jar, how odd. He… He was amazing.





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