The Living years

To be sick and helpless to thoughts of years counting down on a symptom or how the realisation of the shortness of life is can be depressing. You give up yourself and the only control you aspire to is a positive attitude. When you go to bed wheeled into those cold linens with nails to your coffin carried heavy in your heart it is a painful reminder of how serious things have become.You dream of being a boy again,young and innocent, free from the scourges of this earth. You lie in bed and listen to the outside world. You turn and the only change you feel is your bowel movement reminding you how much you haven't eaten.They come and visit you to confirm how worse you have gone and they still have the audacity for a ceremony as if the verdict has been handed down from God himself(you did this to yourself).They say goodbye and leave you a farm of fruits and give you their last stare. by now you have become conscious of time,the endless pills you swallow at the bitter end of the feeling of death.Somedays are better and you can make it to the doorstep and busk in the sun as you count breaths for opportunities missed with whatever it is you might have called your lifetime. the shame,blame are all the same and you will forever be tame as the stigma fires up like a flame that bears your name for a society that needs to be more sane on the pain they do to others.