Although they are
only breath, words
which I command
are immortal

I have no complaint
prosperity that
the golden Muses
gave me was no
delusion: dead, I
won't be forgotten

I suppose if death is staring you in the face, the first one to blink
loses.

Maybe When I'm dead
People Will know of my heart,
My fate, my words and my mind.
Maybe they'll finally care -
Finally read my words.
For my poetry is my eulogy.
Maybe when I'm dead,
People will know of my pain.
With my tears and blood
through these lines, rhymes, and stanzas -
May they see the true me.
And maybe when I'm dead,
I may finally be called a poet.