deepundergroundpoetry.com

When we die

All dead people are just meat turned bone    
Time isn't any kinder to them than it is to us    
As we dread getting our first silver hair they dread turning from bone to dust    
Becoming nothing is a must    
It's so inevitable that even God can't help you
No matter how much you pray    
So pick yourself up, dust off your knees, and feel the freedom's breeze
Written by Swan37
Published | Edited 14th Oct 2022
Author's Note
i love spitting bullshit
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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