Sometimes I think to myself
And then I regret it
Sometimes I wonder whether it's worth it
These pages of poems I write every month
Just for the chance that maybe I'll dance with the near scrape of death
And be nearing my end, when suddenly somebody finds my notepad and pen
And they say to the press "Hey this kid's impressive,
He's written a thousand poems that are really depressing"
And the Sun picks them up and they publish them all
As I perish and know that my legacy stalls
In the hands of those others who wield my new fame
And decide they can use it for greater acclaim
So they buy better treatment to make sure I live
So I'll keep writing poems for the public to give 0 ***** about
That's the problem with writing is nobody reads
Unless it's amazing or on their news feed
And even if that they won't read it for long
As David Jones proved the perfect poem's a
Line of
A few words
Spaced out
For no reason

But **** what do I know, he's selling books and I'm sat on the ******* bitter and losing
There's no chance of ever being discovered in death,
People forget you and then they forget
That you ever did anything
Unless it was great, or showed up in their textbooks
I doubt I'll do that
But I know what I might do
Is keep writing poems that are only for me
And ignore that whole legacy fantasy
And hope that it works out eventually
Because rhyming is harder than I expected
And avoiding cliché is too