When we realise that we
Have little time left on this planet
We drop whatever we were doing
And begin to do the things
That mean the most to us

We take up old hobbies
We dig up buried passions
We unlock the hidden dreams
We start living

But we always knew that life is brief
That our hearts beat for nothing more
Than a cameo
In this supposedly eternal cycle

From adolescence
We are aware of Death
And her ghastly inescapable odour
Yet we go on breathing as if
We are going to be here forever
We take minutes and hours for granted
Days go by
Years pass us
And none of that time is utilised
In doing what makes us happy

When the health breaks down
When coughing becomes second nature
When aches and sprains are allowed to reside in your body rent-free
That’s when we understand life’s worth
But usually it is too late by then
The vitality has faded
The lungs are clogged
The heart pumps inefficiently

Our illusion of youth shatters
Our veins map our history on our skins
Our throat is full of regrets

That is why I wrote this poem
To remind myself of my mortality
To remind myself that I could live differently
That I could be happier and healthier
If I took a little time out every day
To live
I would feel alive

I am going to print this poem
Make multiple copies of it
And pin it everywhere around the house
If it helps me save even a minute of my life
Then this poem has done its job

That is why I published this poem here
To remind you that Death
Is probably around the corner
Waiting to strike you with her cold hands
No, don’t be scared
It’s okay to feel grim at first
It’s okay if you hate me for it
It’s okay
It really is
Use that energy to climb out of the dark cave
And step into the light
You will be blinded at first
But soon you will begin to see the beauty
Dazzling at every blink; so
Break the shackles of your soul
And live

Wouldn’t it be nice
To puncture a hole
In our skins
From time to time
To allow the sadness
Building inside us
To pass?

It would be amazing, wouldn’t it
If a small gap could let out
Anger, grief, anxiety, depression
Slowly over the years?

It is easy to fill
The empty spaces
Of our hearts
With scraps of
Negativity

It is easy to allow ourselves
To become pressure cookers
Without truly understanding
How or why or when

Over the years we find ourselves
In a different form, space and mind
We evolve not from love but
From these scraps that keep
Piling up inside us like a mountain;
A volcano ready to erupt

If only we could blow it off easily
If only we could discharge it
As soon as it finds a way into
The depths of our hearts
We wouldn’t be then products
Of sadness but rather products of love