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Personal Note:

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Poem

People call me surviver, 
because my head hit a car 
and I cheated death. 
I know not my reviver, for I cannot recall, 
but maybe I saw the reaper,maybe I felt his breath. 
Maybe as I grew weaker, and passed the portal past death, 
maybe I made a deal, and he removed my black veil, 
in return for double vision, knowing single's ideal. 
Maybe, just maybe 
he reversed time, just enough for me to heal. 
Maybe, no UNQUESTIONABLY! he made me forget 
like sobriety to an addict of meth. 

People call me lucky, cunning, and graced 
to dance with the reaper 
and survive the embrace. 
But my view is different and I'll make it known. 
If I cheated Death, I did it alone. 
Thinking, linking, ideas clinking 
so creative, 
untill my mind's far from my face; 
to the reaper death is native, so sedative, 
while used to life, death's not my place. 
Death was on his comfy throne, 
while I was far from my zone. 
Who's to say Death's job is to kill, 
and not to read your intentions 
and oppose with death, or worse than death blows. 
Maybe I intended/expected to die. 
Maybe he was destined to disagree. 
So if I intended and was destined to die, 
then in cheating death, 
DEATH CHEATED ME.

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