When my hands can no longer grip my pen,
Will I panic then?
When I no longer know my own name,
Will I panic then?
The fear vibrates each cell in my body,
Terrified I will run out of time to write,
Everything I have to say.
My feeble attempts to witness,
That I was alive.
That I was real.
That I got to be human this one single time.
The urge to make sure they all know it,
Is a sickness for which I have found no cure.
I just. I just. I just.
Need them to know,
When I die
There will be no god collecting my bones.
I will deconstruct into ordinary dust.
But my words,
Those have a chance,
To outlive me.
Even if my a year or two,
They will be the proof.
I was alive.
I lived a human life.
So I will do my best not to panic,
Because either way,
I know I was alive once.