Death Is Sick and Tired

Death is sick and tired of dying and yet he wakes up at the crack of dawn and put's on his noose necktie and stiches his broken, beating and battered heart and looks in the mirror, the mirror breaks in half bringing down his self-esteem and he goes out from 8 to 5 and loves his job, but he lights a cigarette and listens to the poet in the corner talk of suicide in metaphor and drags out laughing as he takes another soul in his pocket, leave the robots to work their fingers to the bone and take the ones that love, that like, that feel their hearts beat that listen and think because who needs those zombies walking around. Death has so much poetry and art that it is the muse for every dead and dying poet out there in the world. We are all living but dying at the same time as time clicks and ticks away and away it goes to a steel room in Heaven God looks down and laughs at the jokes he has created, and Death get's his paycheck for a day's hard work and we my friends, the clowns and jokers, the poets and artist are all just ants under a magnifying glass...