A.j. Binash - Talk About Being a Whiner.

When I die.
My possessions will be stored
In cardboard boxes.
Maybe placed
In my parent's basement.
Next to the Christmas' lights
And old dishes.
Or the dumpster.
Because what use
Can a person get
From
A dead man's things?

I am sure
They'll go through them.
They can have them,
But they can't have me.

If I am lucky
My nephew will get my savings.
A monthly 5.00 royalty check.
And a promise that I was a
“Good man.”

I watch them all,
Grieving.
I remind myself
Sadness is only felt
Among the living.

Here I am.
Hungry, cold.
With every opportunity
To use the resources
Of capitalism
To increase my wealth.
But I don't want it.

I don't want things.

I don't want the life
That I was promised,
From my first inhale as an infant
To my most recent sigh
As a twenty-something.

I don't want rehearsed conversation.
Or marketed masturbation.
I don't want Top 40 Radio.
Or diet soda.
Or anti-depressants.

Even that confident gleam of sunlight
That is magnified through the overcasting clouds
Onto my closed eyelids.
I don't want it.

Some-days,
My speech tastes less like bile
And more like diarrhea.
That's progress.

Yes,
I have perfected the art of lying.
How am I?
Oh,
I am doing fine.

I am smiling, right?

Because I was taught
That happiness is all about perspective.

I see headlights in the distance.
For now
I'll imagine they're coming to get me.
Even though
Their blinker just signaled
A right turn.

A.j. Binash

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/talk-about-being-a-whiner/