Dying is easy, it is the living that is hard;
A quick scratch of glass upon a pretty throat,
A razor cutting deep into a slender forearm,
The rope, the gas oven and that little bottle of pills.
Dying is so easy, too easy; living is hard;
You die a little each day, and each day
Is another day lived, when you could have died.

Dying is giving in to that tiny voice
That nags and wheedles in your mind:
“go on… do it… its easy… come on, do…”
It is harder to fight, to keep on fighting,
When the mind and body say, “The War is won.”
Why fight? It is so easy to die, dying
By the wayside like some forgotten tramp.

Dying is easy: what will they give you?
A little stone marker in some wall –
The ash is over there, in that petty urn;
Half-a-pound of ash, half-a-pound of granite;
And some cemetery scribe will pen a last line:
“Born… Died… Rest in Peace, you of little Faith.”

So you have died? What are you doing here?
Or could it be that you have decided to stay,
Live awhile longer, reach out and grasp Life;
Solve that mild problem that you had,
That wheedled and nagged, and said, “Let go.”

Living is hard, it is the dying that is easy,
Each day a little more lived, each day
Another day follows, time drags
Like Kipling’s Minute; you think too much.

Live each second as a new second,
Each minute, each hour, each day, each year;
Live: learn to love the little minutes
And the difficulties that inhabit them –
It is the problems that make life worth living.