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I don’t understand the big deal about death.
What is it that scares people about their final breath?
A bigger question lies, I wish to apprehend:
Why do people care about another’s intended end?

If my body’s not mine, if it doesn’t belong to me, 
then what’s the big deal in ceasing to be?
Why does one little word cause so much fuss?
All I want to do is to ‘catch the bus’.

Why does the judgement of humanity dictate what is so?
How do they know best, how could they possibly know,
that “things will improve” that “life holds hope”?
I’m sorry, but I just don’t think I can cope.

I can’t hold on until that faraway day,
when things might be better, when they might be okay.
You see, hell doesn’t comply with the laws of reality.
It much prefers to prey upon the weakness of fatality.

Pain doesn’t abide by the time of ‘tomorrow’
Suicide doesn’t know there’s an end to borrow.
Nightmares are unaware they dwell only in the night.
That’s why I don’t believe that everything will be alright.

I have this rotting core that lives inside me as we speak.
It’s this constant decay that makes me so weak.
It’s abandonment of hope that makes me ever so weary.
It’s the loss of self that makes me always so teary.

It’s impossible to explain, impossible to describe.
Yet somehow, humanity feels it is qualified to prescribe
strong opinions in opposition to this cosmic sin.
Don’t judge me. You haven’t been where I’ve been.

What will be will be, that’s what I’ve read.
Live and let live, I’ve heard it been said.
And by the same token, how could you deny,
that it’s just as important to die and let die?

It's all too much. And it's all the same. 
Let me become part of the earth, part of the rain.
As I was before, let me become once again,
a collection of molecules, free from pain.