Counting The Days Poem by Leonard Champlin

There is always this thing in the back of my head
that says I'd live better if I were just dead.
With nothing to live for and nothing to show
or shallow unhappiness that I've grown to know.

My life has had moments of pleasure and pain
my life has had sunshine, and darkness and rain.
I shared in the beauty of two lovely girls
with Angelic faces, and straight hair, no curls.

I shared in the tragedy of passions love lost
I wished I still had, at regardless of cost.
My heart always broke with the pain that I bought
with rivers of tears that my shirt sleeves had caught.

But sunshine had come once again in my life
to combat the fears and the pain and the strife.
A new face of beauty that I'd come to know
a beauty as perfect as fresh fallen snow.

A voice that could soothe me and put me to sleep
a voice reassuring to kill pain so deep.
And yet, it's just me who felt love in my heart
yes, just my old soul, since we're always apart.

She loves me, she hates me, as plucked daisies speak
a mystery unknown as my body grows weak.
And I truly admit I put up quite a fight
to capture her heart in the still of the night.

But somehow I managed to chase her away
as often she says to me 'please, go away.'
But knowing I'm sick, it's so easy to do
I'd rather her happy than miserably blue.

My voice now grows silent, I no longer speak
my body is ravaged, my soul is now weak.
So maybe my friends, I'll repeat words of dread
that indeed I'd live better, if I were just dead