Sense

When I'm alone sometimes
I contemplate death
What would it smell like-
roses, or babies breath?
Maybe it's bitter-
like the taste of black coffee-
or it might be sweet-
like rich butterscotch and toffee
What would I feel if I touched it?
Something real?
Like how a splinter pricks-
Or how red velvet feels?
I think it might sound like Billie Holiday-
Or maybe Donny Hathaway-
A voice to take my breath away-
to take me back to yesterday
I couldn't fathom 
what it would look like-
Male?
Female?
Black?
White?
I don't think it's something
you can measure with a clock-
You can't count the seconds in every little tick-tock-
I think it's more like bullets spraying out of a glock-
You never know it's coming
until you get shot.
I wish death was a considerate friend-
only coming over
when you invite it in.
That way-
I'd be ready
when all my goals are met
we would sit on the patio,
with a casual cigarette-
not not like the seventh seal-
no black suits and chess-
or resistance
no confession,
no penance,
no punishment-
don't feel like digging into memories repressed
already spent most of my childhood depressed-
new blows come daily-
no time for shit suppressed-
I need to stop thinking-
cos I'm getting too obsessed
just tell myself wait till the day
that death manifests.
I might be worth heaven, 
but I think I'm worth-less-
hell seems to be in my price range-
'guess it's time to invest.