This may be number sixty-two,
But you've only read a few.
But I do have a confession to make,
Something I can't quite shake.
I want to be many things,
More things than I may have rings.
And I do have a good bit of those.
Above all else I want to be dead.
And no that was not misread.
I have no plans for my well-being,
No plans that anyone will be seeing.
I'm not sure if you can call this a memoir,
But do note I don't know how to play the mini guitar.
The one that sits on my desk,
The one that's become a slight pesk.
I had plans for it,
Even if it would take a bit.
But even that I've abandoned.
If this is a memoir, I hope it's read.
Maybe when I'm dead.
For I don't think anyone ever really knew me,
And not even I as I can see.
I'm a fleeting wind,
A river's bend.
I'm afraid that I'm just a small candle-light,
The one you burn out at night.
If this is a memoir, then this is a note.
Please bury me in my coat.
The one with the "Tortured Artist" patch,
And the person to match.
For I am a victim of my own crime,
One that has tried to outlast time.
I ask of someone, anyone, to further see,
The only thing that really harmed me was me.
If this is a memoir, I hope it's not too late.
I've always wanted to go on a second cheesy date.
I'm far too shy,
And it's worrisome why.
I think I love you,
But I sometimes wonder if you really do.
I hope you never see this mess,
Because when you do I'll be in a funeral dress.
If this is a memoir,
Please bury me with lilac,
For I only wish for the flowers to take root up and through my back.
This'll mean that finally I have something nice in me,
Even if it means that I'll never get to see.
And once they come through the ground,
Please take the time to come around.
If this is a memoir.....
Then there must be an end.
But for now, ignore me as you would do the wind.
