The Poem of Jovial Death

My Death might be some beautiful evening of 8th January , 2018 whence I will have heart brimming of contentment and a tummy brimming of snacks . My death might be bed time stories to your young mates who will burst out in laughter saying 'hey , your grandpa was kinda cool' , breaking all the generation gaps and captioned cracks of boredom , that day I shall be the star of a young night , maybe not a permanent one but surely the star of the night which won't ever grow too old. Die as if your death were to be a bed time story , a coffee partner , a light joke or a karaoke of early 90's , said a man at his deathbed  at ninety , unemotional and unmoved of any heart stroke which wasn't as loud as an aged phart. Amidst the easy conversations of diseases and diabetes there is a faulty concept of " sorrow is the new cool " says the modern fool . Heartbreak heat is 8 the twerky beat and vaguely judged and surrendered sadness is the depression 2.0 . Death to us might be an easy succumb to struggle you find strong , stronger than your trekking adventures and passport stamps . Death to us might be a lonely night of cigarettes and victimisation and pitifull stories that would just remain an instagram story for 2 days unlike that of our grandparents . So dear trendy death , please visit my door when I am done giving all the love that the world desired and not when I wrongly thought I didn't get the love I desired . Knock my door like a neighbouring child  known yet  anonymous  and not like a part time lover who just gave me life lesson nd I thought it was a suicidal fuss .