I am dead.But please, don't
Try to measure, the
Life, you think I must
Have had. Because I
Was born this way.
My lungs don't know what it's like,
To inflate with the air of life.
My flesh and bones can only create
An illusion: me bearing weight.
And, my heart--my heart is stone.
I cry, I hug, I ache,
But know not a sliver of feeling.
Jealousy, love, hate.
I feel nothing—nothing real.
Do you know?
What it's like. To own a living life?
I've heard there's a way
To come alive for the first time,
To rip out this rock heart,
And replace depravity's hole
With something … oh, something,
So divinely set apart.
All I know:
Is that I cannot
make my own heart beat.
But, I do feel desperation,
And I so desperatelyWant to be alive.
My fear in writing this poem was that somehow, people would get a zombie feel about it. Our world has a good understanding of what death is. The news allows us to know about massive tragedies all over the world, and many movies and tv shows center around the death of a character or the potential destruction of many lives. But, my goal was to describe the moment when a person realizes that they, themselves are dead and are eternally in need of a Savior that they cannot be for themselves.