"Flipside"

It's a strange theory
This pretentious life,
While you to live it
You just survive.

Escaping mishaps,
And horrid horrid death,
We measure quality
By abundance of health.

Why must it be morbid
Grey, of tears and strife,
Maybe we are born dead
Waiting to experience life.

Life begins, they say
When a man gets his wife,
But ask the husband
And he may tell you otherwise.

Whilst we live
We are 'dying' for things,
And even relationships begin
Killing an old fling.

Prayers for a happy future
A million people say,
But tomorrow only comes
With the death of today.

In the end, a picture it is
Blue,black, or perhaps red,
Of death and it's ways
Living in your head.

So the poet in me
Will die the very day,
Words leave me
And I have nothing left to say.

For when someone asks
How did she live? Cry or laugh,
I want to raise my hand
And recite my own epitaph.