She died, white foam in her mouth
It took her hours, till she screamed,
-in a whisper let me die.
and they say, I have a right not to know
how mutated my DNA is.
I can hide from written fate.
But then I know anyway.
Two uncles, a grandfather,
Death told me years ago
Id like think that at her bed side,
There lay a cigarette stub, smoking
its dieing memory fading as she passed
Still they say her genes killed her,
that one piece of a word
written in language we dont understand
And now theres a test, a little prick
to tell me if I carry the same fate,
if I too will die, bones to dust
But for my body its useless,
I carry so many words,
Choosing to use only a few,
And whos to say I use the ones she did?