How you come to see me when I die,
dressed in rags or sables...

Aunt Sis,
who I think really was my mother...

I tell people,
If I produce one good poem a week...

It came to me
while I slept...

She stays by me, and I admit
I talk to her...

It takes two years to kill yourself,
to get to the point you don't care anymore...

She became her mother
who'd throw a monkey wrench...

I'm sure he welcomed death when it came.
Knowing what was going on in his life...

She yells up to me.
She's leaving for work...

Death is on its way.
I wait riddled with pain...

No they won't learn from your mistakes,
gain from your personal experiences...

I eat from an approve food list,
weight myself each morning...