When I die, remember me not for my prose, but for my poetry

 

Do not remember me for my plain expressions and monotone speech in daily life

Remember me for my genuine grins and excited shouts of rarity

For my passionate screams and seething venom spitting from my lips

 

Do not remember me for my solemn stares and tired gazes in solemnity

Remember me for the wistful longing in my eyes when beauty was before me

For the thick streams of tears falling from them in times of unfathomable sorrow

 

Do not remember me for my clumsy and tired steps of defeat and stress

Remember me for my sashays and twirls in elation and excitement

For the times i fell to my knees, bruised and defeated by my own demons

 

Remember me not for my angry words and harsh stances, brought about trivially

Do remember me for my loving holds and gently words of kindness and encouragement

And for the true anger, for the frustrated words of desperation and concern

 

When I die, Remember not my statis

Remember my activity

 

Remember my genuine tears and even more genuine triumphs

 

Forget my prose,

 

Remember me in bits and pieces of beautiful poetry,

good and bad, beautiful and disastrous, infinite in its complexity

 

I am not a novel, but a collection of poems

And I believe, within myself, that I am worthy of reading