I couldn’t say this
which dismayed her
but not me
because I am 14 years old,
and I know,

The best of musicians die at 27
Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Robert Johnson, Kurt Cobain…
they lived their 27 years
but created incomparably more
music sweet music,
wish I could caress
with a kiss
Music that you can hear
and feel
and love
and travel with to sensual extents greater than your mind's capacity would otherwise have allowed
they create
a musical revolution
revolutionizing you,
music
and possibility.

If I should so happen to die at 27,
with such a legacy
I would not feel cheated by the fates,
and I would invite death in for a cup of tea
(or black coffee, should he prefer)
and then be taken away
on a hazy Nirvana Trip into blue clouds
never to be forgotten by the world,
for no number larger than 27
bursts with such intensity
but any number smaller
is immature and absent of value.

I don't think my going will happen quite so soon as this,
however,
for I am not a musician;
my rumpled pages contain words,
not notes
my instrument is a mute pen
and my symphony has no
rhythmic pounds of beated drums
nor heated, ecstatic, limitless guitar soloes
nor angelic hymns of violins;
my symphony
scribbles
A charmer's dig
of pen into paper
coaxing ink-rivers
to snake through
the streaming red lines
and find
my heart,
and circulate
and relate
and conceive
my soul
poured forth onto devastated leaves
of fallen trees
that rustle as they weep for their comrades
who clumped to the forest floor
and were processed
into paper
now dead
just so that I could bitch and whine about when I'm going to die and try to put in images of blood and snake-charmers but be too damn subtle for anyone to see it anyway and maybe put in a few rhyming words or rhythms too so that it sounds nice when I read it,
yeah that's just about it
my purpose in life
which requires the death of trees
imagine the irony of that
I bet about half my poems are psuedo-hippie endeavors in which I write about how much I love trees and love to hug trees and this and that and free love and eternal peace, can you dig, man?
and all the while not realizing how many trees are dying just for me to express my love for them
fuck it, we should all just live in bubbles shouldn't we?