What if.

I'm sick of all these suggestions,





For the rest of the world,

But for me?

Not for me.

What if elephants could fly,

What if lampshades could talk.

What if oceans could sing,

What if Sharpies could walk.

It doesn't matter,

What they could,

Or what they should.

Because they won't.

Like me.

They won't learn to fly,

They won't ever talk.

Trying to get them to sing?

I guarentee you'll have no luck.

And I promise you,

With all my heart,

They will never,



Learn to walk.

Do you know why?

Do you know why these simple things are suddenly impossible?

Do you know why we'll never sing?

It's obvious,

My friends,

The first time you gaze upon me.

My mouth hung open,

My eyelids shut.

My body in a chair,

Thin tires on the sides.

My skin paved with wrinkles,

My heart torn with pain,



If you...

If you could peer at my shrunken soul,

You'll see all I can be.

A nothing,

A no one,

That's what I can be.

You see,

It's quite obvious,

The moment you look at me.

My eyes are useless,

My hearing is none,

My taste is forgotten,

My youth is gone.

The only thing intact,




By all these years,

Is my brain.

Still living as ever,

Still clever as can be,

My brain is still living,

Though deep inside of me.

But here is my problem friends,

And perhaps you can help.

There's no road out of my body,

For my innocent,



They're all trapped up inside of me,

They're caged,

They're bashed,

They're beaten.

Maybe I could be the next Newton,

Maybe even Hawkins,


But you see,

There's no use in all these "what ifs" and "maybes".

It's impossible,

My friends,

For me.

There's no use in hoping,

For it'll all come crashing down.

There's no use in trying,

Because we all know it's a lost cause.

There's no use in living,

There's no use in life.

But Death just won't come,

To pull me out of my nightmares.

Death won't come,

To save me from my sorrows.

Death won't come,

To spare me from the pain.

Death won't come,

To take me from this horror.

Death won't come.

Death won't come.

Because She knows,

It's not my time.

Not yet.

Dedicated to my grandmother Hella, for all of her bravery, in the time when she was still alive.

A/N: My grandmother seems to be a very good topic for poetry and stories. Maybe I'll write more about her. There's a problem though. Every time I write something, I usually end up crying.