Het moest gaan over hoe je dood wil gaan. Kan me voorstellen dat niemand er een bal van snapt, maar ik heb erover nagedacht hoor x)
Let me die a younglady’s death,
not the natural kind including worn-out bones,
and a head heavy from nostalgia,
nor the coward kind including
a whiskey-drenched decision.
When I’m the poet running out of words
and confess my sins in a final strophe,
rhyming with nothing but my very last breath.
When my soul grows too strong for metal bars,
spits on convention, and chooses to break out,
knowing the choice is a right but fatal one.
When I spend winter nights begging for
forgiveness, in front of a lost friend’s door
freezing but wearing my coat of courage.
Let me die a younglady’s death,
not the murderer’s kind where
a gun rips an innocent chest apart,
nor the materialistic kind making one a
golden memory, eventually turning to rust.
Destiny is what you're supposed to do. Fate is what kicks you in the ass to make you do it.
