With each passing tick of a clock,
With each pained, strained, twitch of the wrist.
A puddle of whiskey, pooling in me,
Which lessens that damn burdened strain and pain.

My muscles rip, strain, tear, and snap,
My bones crack, pop, break, and lay bare.
My body is moist with my tears and blood,
My soul aching from the weight of death near.

Death, sweet, repugnant death, here sits,
A dear friend, a dear enemy.
Why are you here, mocking me with relief,
Or here to remind me of what I’ll lose.

“I am here as neither, odd child,
I am here because I exist.
Like a hill, volcano, cliff, or mountain,
I can be either a blessing or curse.

There is, of course, a third choice that exists,
One that seems to escape all human lists.
That choice is to treat me like all spoiled, diseased, fruits,
Throw me fast to the side to procure pure pursuits.”

Well, that choice is fine and dandy,
and quite the keen observation.
Yet, it arises a question, my friend
Why? Oh, why? did you describe me as odd?