I've been thinking,
Maybe if I died, my poems would thrive after I'm gone.
Maybe they would sing songs of me, building a legacy that continues to live on.
I dream about them reading all the poems I've ever written detailing my wrongs,
As they guess what each line truly meant, questioning the meaning behind them all.
But of course, that's just a dream I once saw.
It's hard to believe that even if I died that dream would come true.
But I wonder, when I pass, will I be looked up to at all?
Will I be forgotten?
Not a word spoken about me, forced to be a picture on the wall,
As no one speaks of my poetry and the true pain within my self-flaws.
I've thought about killing myself for my poetry to live on.
Sometimes I think that'll be the better option for an art that has died.
Because in order for one to thrive, one must offer their life,
And become someone no one expected them to be,
A martyr for poetry.
