Die Empty
Author’s Note
This poem reflects on mortality not as an end, but as a measure of how fully one has lived. It considers the responsibility of becoming who we are meant to be and the quiet urgency of releasing our gifts into the world before our time is done. To “die empty” is not loss, but fulfilment as the result of a life poured out in creativity, purpose, and shared humanity.
Everyone likes talking
about how they would live.
But lately
I’ve started to imagine
how I would die.
I do not necessarily think
about earth and dust,
or waiting around
just to see who would mourn the most
before I transcend.
I wonder who would remember me.
Who would come to my gravesite every day
and bring me flowers,
knowing that I love them.
How would the earth receive me?
What would be my final thought
just before I pass on?
Would, at that moment in time
where the world seemed
to fragment in two
and the crossroads narrow
to a hair’s breadth
would I stare at the River Styx,
being the person I am now,
and look at her
the person I could have become
and smile?
Or would I wish
for more time?
Lately the goal
is to die empty.
To live fully,
but to live with a weight
on my shoulder,
knowing that it is
my utmost responsibility
to unleash myself
onto the world.
For the person I will become
I already am
the tree in the seed.
For in the finished work
I start from the very beginning.
So I write down the lyrics
as they come,
creativity
at the very tip of my fingers.
I journey through my poems,
refining and perfecting my craft.
I analyse and describe,
regurgitate what I have learnt,
and encourage others
to do so too.
For in my winning
I want to win with you.
I acknowledge the slow moments,
the times where it seems
like your very essence
is trapped
in the fabric
of societal expectations.
I know that sometimes
confusion and doubt set in.
But whilst you ponder
the what-ifs
what if it does go
how you imagined?
What if your life reveals
to the world
what you already know?
Your full form revealed
and why are you surprised
that it is magnificent?
I speak to you
as I utter the very same words
to myself.
I give nothing
to the grave.
For all that is in me
is in the eyes
of all who beheld me.
It is in the hands
of all who held me.
It is in my legacy.
So this is the life
we’ve imagined.
Take a moment
to reset.
Now it has come
the season
we spoke of
in whispers.
— Laurel