Dear Death,

Am I a praise poet or a blame poet?

Today I am a blame poet.

 O Death, face it, existence

doesn’t like you.

You can’t sing. You can’t paint.

You can’t play drums. You can’t skateboard.

You won’t even ride a bicycle.

You are harbinger of nothing.

All you like to do is hinder and disturb.

Hinder and disturb.

I think you think it’s cool.

It’s not. (And you smell funny.)

It’s getting annoying.

You’re, like, so cheerless.

I don’t care what you think,

I’m trying out for the school play.