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.

Bibliographical info

Jason Camlot, "Dear Death,". Copyright © Jason Camlot 2013. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.

Source: What the World Said (Mansfield Press, 2013)


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