We all say Emily Dickinson in our sleep
And watch Van Gogh as we eat,
We greet Herman Melville at every turn of a corner
And think long thoughts of Galileo.
In the breeze,
With a touch that is as powerful
As the yawn of a hurricane,
We feel them, everyday.
There is poetry of heartbreak twisting in our lips
As our eyes melt into Starry Nights and Olive Trees
Without a whale to be seen;
On and on the earth spins around the sun.
But how would they ever know?
They died before a thing of theirs was sold.
Gone with their eyes closed,
Unaware of their art, words, discoveries
Being showcased grandly in every museum.
How would they ever know?
When I grow old with my poems,
All flaky and dusty,
Maybe once I die,
Everyone will read them.
They will always, always hear me
On the most windiest days.
And they will host grand celebrations
Above my body --
Stanzas engraved into each hand and wrist,
Rhythm echoing in their ears,
As they raise their drinks as a toast for me,
For the dead girl and her poems
That can make them feel alive.
No reason to worry about me,
I will be in company with fallen soilders,
Stars praised after death.
Hey, at least I'll be recognized someday.
If my words can be muttered in sleep,
Glimpsed over dinner,
Or laying in streets,
If having nothing gives me something,
So I can be heard in currents
Of sweet, sweet air,
Then don't mind me.
Continue with your day.
Get going now,
Just you wait,
You will all hear from me
After my life sets like a sunset,
Lowering ever so slowly
Through the yellows, oranges, reds
Into the dark.
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