Channelling Whitman

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I understand the large hearts of heroes
The selfless thought of the gift of life,
Conflicting with the hope I might,
Walk out of this place without a fight.

The thin sheet being a poor excuse for warmth,
On my now pale and discouraged frame of who I used to be
Not one day does the question “why?”
Not run through my mind,
Through my blood
And into my soul
As I turn,
I feel my skin shift
As the needle taped to my arm,
Tugs on my skin

The constant ache
The heaviness in the pit of my stomach
That I may not wake up another day
Uncertainty is the worth part
It’s the part that makes you want to hold on
Just a little bit tighter
Until your knuckles turn white,
And your hands tense up
All the way to your shoulder blades

Yet, if in my misfortune
In my death,
I could salvage someone else’s life
Will it be worth it..

Could I be the ray of hope to a little boy?
Just like the one waiting eyes full of hope for me to arrive home
For he, just like me,
Has the same chilling sensation elevating up his spine
Every time someone with a white coat slowly coerces into your room,

If God himself tells me
My last breath is soon
Then in my mix of apathy towards my nemesis
I will be given a moment of serenity
Knowing in my end
There will be a new beginning





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