I am sick and afraid that I might die,
But no one has an answer as to why.
These days, all I can do is sit in my darkened room and cry,
People ask me if I am okay and all I can do is lie.
"Yes," I tell them with a weak smile on my sickly face.
Even though I know a cold grave will be my resting place.
Satisfied, they walk away thinking, 'What a waste.'
I only wish that death would finish Its fateful task,
So I could stop suffering--is that too much to ask?
But I know that will not happen, because It enjoys my misery.