To The Dead Girl

To the dead girl next to me,

If you could only see what I can see.

Your friends and foes has come to mourn.

Fake tears reigned over their fake faces,

Saying condolences they never meant;

Sharing memories that never happened.

I know you could not stay another day,

To laugh, To love, To play, To kill.

You, miss, should stay in your casket.

Six feet under, Hide your rotting exterior,

Of mortality; Of life gone

Or else, hell-hound will come and bring you

To your eternal stay.

I won’t need to call you by your old, familiar name,

Or speak to you,

We don’t need to bash them senselessly anymore.

I mean, technically your soul is now saved.

So, why don’t we pour some champagne?

You’ve been good; lazy but good.

Illustrator of kidnapped characters

From the space of unthinkable personas

They’re still chasing off the days

Winding back to utmost loneliness

You caged them into a canvas.

They know

If they stayed for long,

They’ll be inked to permanence.

I’ll never wear forced air of sorrow.

You know, It doesn’t suit me.

I’ll be just another lonely speaker

In another senseless conversation

But that’s the price to pay.

I very much often tell them:

“Don’t stand by her grave like that

Don’t weep as if Death assigned you next

Her remains will stay there,

But she’s not truly there,

She did not die.

She’s on the road trip

To where none of us should be.

And as I was saying these things,

I’m feeling jealous.

She didn’t even need to fall in line,

Fill up empty voids in a form,

Fall in line, again.

Pay checks of different kinds.

 You didn’t even need a driver’s license

To get on a road trip of her own.

And now, I’m in need of one.

Maybe you can ask God,

“Where’s the fastest way to get one?”

Our professor asked us to write a eulogy for a friend, I obliged. She didn’t tell us how to do it so I just wrote a poem since I don’t want to be melodramatic.


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