Gazing through the liminal windows  
Only to find what I already hold so dearly
Fronting smiles for a quick benefit
As my stone-set complexion wanes wearily  
And, my Humanity animates this miserable repose
Into a shameless portrayal of diminished whit
  
And, all of these unsent letters forming disappointment
Remind me that this sickly apathy could have been avoided
I saw the torment approaching from behind every grin-
Connecting my reality to this life I've been appointed
A continuation of actuality so meek and despondent
Vaguely showcasing the sensations of the sublimity within
  
How can the objective see all this self absorption?
When we're looking through a constant one way mirage
A reflective outlook from one of the searching minds
Fixated on all the shells of this social entourage
Pondering the inner entanglement of their sad misfortunes
leaving nothing but questions with no answers to find
  
Impossible as it seems to depict the substance of perception
These literal creations we compose must amount to something
Or at least comfort us with a contorted definition of self
Without this written word - would I be left with nothing?
Can I bare to see myself forgotten as a faint misconception?
Should I clot the thread of memory with a part of myself?

I want to write but I can't
I have millions of Soliloquies  
if I could tape record my mind
id play it in a tape deck to a crowd out loud and finally my feelings and thoughts would be crystal clear
Suffering to explain, to have them understand
I'm not even sure sometimes what I'm
Going through because I forget
Past days affect my current days, my current self, my struggling self
Acceptance comes easy for different things
Pain comes the easiest apparently because why am I still in pain?
It has to come from somewhere

Twenty
Four
Hours.

Over a year ago
My theatre teacher told me
And a group of my closest friends
To write down
Exactly what we would do if
We found out we only had
Twenty-four hours left
To live.

My original draft was very juvenile,
Full of dramatic kisses
And dying in my crush's arms.

It was beautiful
For a seventeen-year-old romantic.

I don't know if my teacher realized
That I would become slightly
Obsessed with
What I would do
If I had twenty-four hours to live.
But whether she realized or not,
Obsessed I became.

I wrote "24" or my hand each day
For weeks,
To remind me that I could be
Dead in twenty-four hours,
Or less.

I wrote at least fifty drafts
Of what I would do
If I found out at that moment
That I had twenty-four hours left.
I would write a new draft when I decided
That the previous draft was
Too out-dated.
I think the longest lasting draft
During my surge of
Twenty-four hour hypotheticals
Lasted one week.
One.

I was totally obsessed with daring greatly,
Doing the things I had longed to do
For weeks or months or years,
And suddenly I had the permission I needed
To do them:
Twenty-four hours to live.

My drafting came to an end when
My best friend
Handed me the best
Twenty-four hour outline
I had ever seen.

At the top read the disclosure:
And you get into heaven no matter what.

I couldn't surpass that list with any of my own ideas.
And my obsessment was already dimming.

A year and a half or more later,
I don't make drafts.
I'm not obsessed.
I'm not going to die.

But every once in a while
When I feel like I'm not living
Life
To it's fullest,
I write "24" on my hand for
A few days.
Just to remind myself,
That at any moment,
My twenty-four hours left to live
Could be up.