And Then You Are Dead Poem by Raj Arumugam

you are born and you cry
and people plan your life
and you grow up and you create;
and you drive along established roads
and wander on tried and tested tracks
and you do all the things people do;
life’s a guided tour for you


what is one
but colored patterns
drawn on an empty floor?



and you are tightened and fixed with an identity and a self
and a brand of beliefs and revelations
that make you feel oh, so so special
and marvelously destined for heaven;
and still you cry and you aspire
and you have ideals and dreams
and you have financial planning
and you steal and you rob and you kill
and yet you have justifications and euphemisms
and you chase dreams and myths and lies
and ideals and visions and systems and theology
that sweeten all the filth and evil that you are


one has beliefs
and one is blind
for one must be led


you accept beliefs
that will assuage your guilt
and let you get away with murder;
and you set up home
and you court and marry
and you bring forth and you multiply;
you prosper and you have years of want;
and you laugh and you cry
and you write and sing and dance
and you repeat, repeat and repeat and repeat



to be human
is to be group-safe
for originality frightens



and you vary it all with experience
and chasing adventures and different things to do;
and you love food and you eat a planet
and you present yourself well
and you dress well
and you have sex and you have desires
but you conceal, conceal
and you hide and hide and you hide
you deny, you deny, you deny;
and you use fine words and you make yourself feel good
and you climb up hills and you go downhill
and you join fraternities and you renounce one and take on another;
and you have certainties and uncertainties
and you move from filth to filth
and you think you’ve found the way
and you want to change the world
but never yourself;
and all your life you whinge
and point an accusative finger;
and you are violent and you are gentle
and you are full of truth and you full of deceit
and you are, you are
oh so, so fragmented;
and you grow old and you glow with pride and complacency
or you turn like gnarled roots
and bitter and sad and cursing like Timon
and you pontificate with all your carcass morals


the good person
is one
who is just


you know nothing, but you just repeat what they put in you;
you love Holy Books and you repeat the myths;
and you move in time from where you are to what you want to be
and find the grounds have changed
and the goalposts have moved;
and then you continue the fight and the struggle
and then you die


you die;
and then you are dead;
wake up, you are dead