When I die slingshot my ashes onto the surface of the moon

Poetry is / can / be anything ... everything says When I die slingshot my ashes onto the surface of the moon. She is sleepy but they cannot sleep. It is 4:44 a.m. loneliness this restlessness. The soft hue of blue from the TV bathes the room via a 24/7 lo-fi livestream. Poems are troubled into existence - When I die she read that somewhere but cannot remember where but it has stayed it is the underpinning of this book and all that contains with/in/out. Where did these bruises come from? The heart the brain the heart the soul? How do I live? How do I keep on living? I dont know is the honest answer. I must is the honest honest answer.