PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Everywhere I go, is to visit the old

the sick, and the weak.

Whenever one dies, I cry.

I want to die, but I can't.

I feel a big sense of guilt. 

I feel like a criminal

I always here the same questions.

"Why!? Why him?"

"Why? She was my daughter!?"

"Why?? He had his whole life to live!"

and all I can do...is just leave.

I feel in love with Life

the way it seemed to give hope.

Her mysterious ways...

But Life was afraid, for whatever I touched.

Died.

She hated me, she couldn't stand me. 

Those that had her,

would call me a criminal. A thief.

They taught I enjoyed my job,

when in truth, I despised it. 

They didn't see me cry for every little infant that was ripped apart by machines.

They didn't know I cried for the old man that died alone without the world even noticing.

They didn't see me cry when young kids died at the hands of their parents,

or when somebody commited suicide because their world felt apart.

The old feared me.

The mother's despiced me.

The father's cursed me.

The children hated me.

I'm in everybody's life,

in every fairy tale, and in dreams.

Nobody is prepared for me.

My friend is Pain and Loneliness follows me everywhere.

You probaly already know me,

you already have seen me before...

My name is Death.