A Poem About Dying

Joseph Franklin
1 min readNov 2, 2022

I hope it is very quiet there/ where at least everything is knowable/ or not at all. Just/ no need for curiosity/ or worry over meaning/ Do you understand me?/ Do you worry/ your character is not really main?/ That you will dissolve/ into the grey of the Rust Belt./ You wish/ your severe disability away/ then you’d work Uber/at least talk face to face.//

I burned all my computers/ in the fumes/subcame to a smoldering porn site/ streaming through my nose/ PAWGS packing each nostril/ my lungs quitting./ When you die/ it’s not what you want it to be/ you are recycled not redeemed./ You pop into the exact right/ conscious sequence/ of now in infinity. You don’t remember before birth; because YOU didn’t exist/ dipshit./ you have no idea about death; because YOU won’t be there/ dip shit.//

My dreams are so rude for existing. It’s rude/ to realize your size./ How little hold YOU has./ My poems will never be taken serious./ I’ll lie to my family./ The book is being looked at./ Really/ I am here looking for a fellow drifter ent/ less transactional/ connection./ Nothing gained/ only shared./ I don’t Know./ I am sick of leaving rooms/ only to find another one/ much smaller/ filled with obstacles./ let me outside. //

Can we all just live./ what ever that is./ You know.

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Joseph Franklin

Poet; Quadriplegic; Rust Belt; Zen; Zazen; Pop Culture;