Advice From the Deceased

She kept wanting me
to go
up there.

Over and over again,
we felt
his cold, vacant body.

He wasn't really there.

A family friend told me
to stay in my seat,
remember him
as he was
when he was alive.

I had to go.

My little sister kept dragging me.

I don't know why,
maybe she was fascinated
with death,
maybe she liked the feel
of cold flesh.

I was lost.

I was absolutely crushed.

Completely
broken
down.

I didn't want to see him
like that,
my brother,
laid out in a casket,
unsmiling,
dead.

I didn't want to.

I bet,
she doesn't even
remember.

I will never forget
for as long as I live
that we all
had to bury
such a sweet,
mischievous,
wonderful,
young
soul.

Now,
my sister's still
dragging me around.

So is everyone else.

They want me
to do this, that,
or the other.

I don't want
to do
any of it.

I'd rather
take a seat
and remember my brother,
and try to think
what he would do
in this situation.

He'd probably
tell everyone
to fuck off,
he'd probably
tell me
to stop being a pussy
and to do
what I feel
I need to do,
to get out there
and grab the world
by the balls
and not let go
till it bows to my will.

It will.

I will listen.

No more being lost,
no more fear,
no more sadness,
no more grief.

No more, no more.

Keeping the memory
of him
and his advice
hidden within
my every thought,
I'm going to set out
on the open road
and gain a lust for life
no one has achieved
since he left.

The world is fucked
for good.

Good.

It's about time I let it.