I know no one will come to my funeral.
It doesn’t feel like fear—
it feels real.
I might be the funny guy
who made others smile,
but when I died,
still… everyone smiled.

A few sighs scattered in the wind,
but even my mother
didn’t cry.

Maybe I was just a noise
that filled their quiet
for a while.
A punchline
with no setup,
a memory they’ll blur,
not miss—
even dismiss.

I left pieces of myself
in their laughter—
but no one noticed
the funny guy
was a fighter.
Yes, they call me a writer.

"It was night. I stood alone on the road.
Someone knocked me down—
and for seven minutes, a reel of memories played in my head.
Then came the black.
Not death,
but the kind of quiet
that only comes
when you finally stop pretending to belong.

I left the world that never felt like mine—
not with a scream,
but a sigh.
And in that void,
for the first time,
"...I wasn’t lost.
I was—
find."

Even the fastest runner
couldn’t catch his love.
He watched her walk away

Even the best painter
couldn’t capture his lover—
something was always missing.

Even pure things
carry a little stain.
Even love
holds some pain.

So tell me, Mom… Dad…
why must I keep going on,
when even the good kids don't ?