they way that poems speak; 

had once spoken to me,

it said, "ain't your time to leave"

don't worry you'll pull through,

you still got air to breath.

but we've got work to do 

to get you on your feet

your path is what you choose.

to march to your own beat,

and walk in your own shoes.

to cut through all deceit,

cause we've got more to lose

despite what others greet,

"i'm fine and how are you?"