POEM

When I die
I want to be a poet
They will discover
Under the bedstand
Numerous journals
Filled with my brilliant musings

When I die
I want to be a poet
They will collect my writings
In themed anthologies
Oblivious to the whirlwind
Of my mind

When I die
I want to be a poet
Who will be poked at
Prodded and dissected
By adolescent girls and boys
Who are told no by the educated elite

When I die
I want to be a poet
That one young girl keeps by her
Bed at night
And silently reads to herself
In her voice
The road of my undoing

When I die
I want to be a poet
With a cult following
Because I did not obey the rules
And be misinterpreted over and over
Because I am not here to explain myself

When I die
I want to be a poet
And I want the world to know
My secrets I hide from them
In the daylight of judgment
And my innermost turmoil
They will never understand

When I die
I want my writings burned
Inside the charcoal grill
On my deck
And the ashes spread in Doolin
Glasses raised in my honor
In honor of the century’s greatest poet
Who tragically was not recognized
Until after her death

And to quote myself
“fuck ain’t that the way it is”.