I'm not afraid dying yet.

I'm not concerned with crawling out of the grave with unfinished business. I haven't lived that long and, as a consequence, don't have much to miss.

The base of which my life consists are broken relationships, as is: all with the basic gist of selfish complacence just overpowering, looming over, towering, dooming more than my choosing, scouring for room to bloom, but deflowering and losing.

My family especially, though they never accepted me, they quite never expected me to pretend they neglected me. Telling lies to gain sympathy, because empathy I've never experienced; I'm serious, don't tempt me, I'm deleterious.

Though I try to pass off as mysterious, you'll laugh your ass off when you see how delirious my interior really is. Have a scoff at my visage, rattle off a list of all I do that makes you pissed. I swear I've heard it all before from my own mind.

Oh I'm not afraid of dying yet. I still have a ways to go before my fear becomes my bread, before my death becomes my dread, before my ante ups the status quo.

Growing old alone, disowned by family and friends, but prone to making amends with thrown up bottles of gins and tonics. I wince; ironic events throttle the chain link defence. You can see through my arguments that I've become an Austinhallic.

A victim of hyperbolic wisdom, which I whisky the "w" from. Still got colic in my system, does my wineing trouble you some? Frolic rums the risk of schism; can't drop the ball and call its shattered pieces "prisms." There are no flatteries in rhythms.

If I get married, I'll get divorced, and if I get buried, it won't be by force. It's a rare breed who have carried my discourse, but I deflect their affection, their retention by extension. For the life of me, I couldn't comprehend apprehension. Too ended to mention; our attention, suspended. In defense of my dementia, my pretension's pretended.

Do I come across as cross? Well, bear, 'cause fate is my station. Oh Lord, I can't afford to take a self-deprvacation.

I'm not afraid of dying yet. What else do I have to look toward?
Though I'm not afraid of dying yet, I'll still forewarn looking forward.

Planning the future by handing grandkids some sutures, being candid: "This is standard. Life is nature vs. neuter." And so, abandonment's unnaturally neutral. And did you know? To die in utero is just a timelier funeral.

The world is rotten and filled, and not in short supply, with assorted sordid ghosts we'd almost forgotten we'd killed. I may seem morbid but I'm sure to teach you more than your chores did; you can still window-shop your whole life, you'll never know what's in store, kid.

So be elselessly selfish, 'cause, well, it's 井, いま, I'mma or never. Don't try to lingual; there's no need to be clever. Just know that things'll never get better; they'll never get better.

What if as I lay dying, I find I've been lying to myself?
What if as I'm dying, I can't stop from crying and trying not to die (...and dying not to try)?

I am not afraid of dying, yet I'd better do it soon.