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Not Enough Time
Have you ever just sat down and thought about how short you have to exist?
From first breath to last, from toddler's babble to blurry remembrances of your first kiss
Life goes by so fast, and each year seems to pass that much faster
I don't know if Darwin's right, or if God exists and is a rat bastard
But I don't want to be this aware of my own mortality at twenty seven years old
Even if I knew that I would live to be a hundred and twenty seven, the grave would still seem just as cold
I'm not depressed, but my imminent death has been on my mind a lot lately
And the deaths of my parents and friends, I just can't shake this overall feeling of mortality
Do you ever just look at the clock or your watch and just think that there isn't enough time?
How many more seconds, minutes, and hours do we have left to do something worthwhile to leave behind?
I think to myself, how will I be remembered by the people who knew me best, from friends to enemies
And more so, how long my presence will linger on the tips of their tongues and in their memories
You see, I really don't have a close relationship with God, because I'm both bitter and Agnostic
If there is no God, then I'm basically fucked as far as the afterlife goes, and if there is one our relationship is already fairly caustic
So, once again I'm fucked, but I'm more frightened of an oblivion than I am of a hell
I can conceive of eternal pain, but I can't conceive of nothingness where not even blackness dwells
But I digress, I didn't mean to write this poem to question what's in the afterlife
It's just been on my mind recently, that I'm not where I thought I'd be at this time in my life
And, upon thinking that, I fell into thinking about how much I have left to accomplish what I thought I'd already have done by now
When I got to that point in my musings, it hit me, as it does from time to time, that as far as time goes, I'm not what you'd call well-endowed
All I want at this point is a woman I love, a house, a car, and a son
But I've got one out of the four, the least important, and as each minute passes I'm a minute more past young
I'm just saying that there's not enough time to become the person you aspire to be
And even after that last drawn breath, your only existence is in your friends' and families' fading memories
I enjoy writing poetry for the art itself, and the fact that it gives me a legacy
Because once this flesh has returned to the earth maybe I can live for one more breath in a breath spent on remembering me.
-David "Dingo" Bleecher