When I kick the bucket I need to be covered in the ground with no pine box. I need my stripped tissue against the earth. I need to feel her pulse against my skull. I need the dirt under my fingernails, and the tree roots to fold over me in a natural embrace. I need to wind up one with the spot I’ve called home. I need the sunflowers to sprout from my substance, I need the sunbeams sparkling down endeavoring to resuscitate me with their glow, I need the mists to cry as the sky aches for that restoration to work out. I need the downpour to wash my bones each time, and I need the water to stream underneath me into the waterways, lakes, and seas. I need to realize that my body still lives on and waits through the whole earth, that my vitality still exists in what today is underestimated.
When I bite the dust, I don’t need the worms to need to battle to do what’s normal. I don’t need an obstruction among them and my tunneled body, I realize that these worms will eat through me, yet then help gardens develop. I’ll be laying there with earth choking out my effectively still heart as they eat their way through my tissue. A similar substance you brushed your lips and fingers against. A similar tissue that was beaten and worn out, a similar substance my tears fell upon as I sobbed well into the night. A similar substance that was sunburnt and painted on. The substance that was scented of lavender and patchouli. They’ll tear everything without end and feast on my unfilled money box of a body. They’ll consider this to be a banquet of the world realizing that once this money box was full. A thumping heart, a grin that let noisy giggling escape, sapphire blue eyes, hands that wanted to paint, and compose, and a spirit that felt things nobody else could see. Like most natural fortunes underestimated, excellence not seen and lifted at and concealed, and covered up, and covered in apparel, magnificence censured by others as excessively fat, excessively short, excessively furry, such a large number of spots. The worms will be appreciative for the blessing you once detested for being excessively. What’s more, this is the thing that we merit. For our bodies to come back to the earth that made them, the earth that inhaled oxygen into our lungs and painted nightfalls for us to watch. We have the right to come back to that, we have the right to be compelled to watch the existence we can never again live, on the grounds that it is just once we lose something we understand its magnificence and esteem.
When I bite the dust I need mother earth to help me to remember precisely where I originated from, and precisely where I have a place. I need my tears to be the downpour, my breath to be the breeze my distress to be the tempest mists. I need my giggling to be the rainbows and my grin to be the sun. When I kick the bucket I would prefer not to be alive scanning for adoration and magnificence underneath the surface. I need to come back to myself where I have a place, I need the earth to tenderly shake me as I come back to my most unadulterated self. I need to feel content with my demise, free of the majority of life’s torments. Allowed to rest, to feel, and to make new life. I don’t need individuals lamenting and setting blooms at my grave. I need them to at last hear me, to at last observe my actual magnificence and worth. I need them to understand that I’m the components surrounding them, that their words never again can make me extremely upset, I need to end up the sticks and stones they used to pound me. What’s more, I need to be the downpours that wash away their transgressions. When I bite the dust I won’t be nothing, I’ll be everything.