Death of the Author.

Everybody wants to be remembered for something.

Something they were, a mother, father, daughter, or so forth.

Something they gained, their money, accolades, their record.

Something they did, good, bad, ugly, or whatever the hell else.

Me? I don't want no part in that.

I don't want people taking advantage of me after I'm six feet under.

Fingering their way through my collected works,

Combing through every tiny anecdote,

Speculating on why I did what I did,

Wondering Why I didn't do what I should have done.

Or worse, coming up with a character better than me.

Prettier than me, smarter, kinder, freer than me.

No, I just want to slip through the annals of history.

I want my page to fall out and wind up in the gutter.

Let every story I've written whisper its way authorless through time.

I want my skin and bones to decay in an unmarked grave.

For people to only ever feel a shade of what I once was.

Truthfully, that's the only way I can live.

As a passerby, a wanderer in the desert.

Someone you'll not quite remember in years to come,

Whose name will slip from your mind,

And whose presence at broken-down diners,

Inner-city alleyways,

Forgotten highways,

And lost bedrooms,

Comes and goes at will.

Leaving behind only the faintest taste of melancholy and a hint of drugs,

There's enough people who've enshrined their names into history.

With their art, their antics, or their ambitions.

I don't want no part in that.

So kiss me before I go, and I'll be free of the burden.