It wasn’t the way I had it imagined, 

my Death. 

I had pictured something grandiose, 

Instead, white walls and a steady hum filled the room. 

It was empty, 

just one living soul. 

I have never enjoyed poems with short lines, 

but here I am, 

writing my eulogy, with nothing coming to mind. 

They remember the good things; family man, loved animals, 

you get the drill. 

it’s not an accurate reflection of life, or how he cut himself with a knife. 

Too real? 

Too bad. 

I chose this way of life, 

or death. 

My death. 

All rather boring, really.