Give it to me, its what I want.
From you, from work, my friends, the world.
Everyone must know that I exist.  
That I made an impact.
My soul didn't just drift away on the wind.
When the lights finally fizzled out
like a match being dropped in a glass of ***** water, something remained. I remained.
    I was a explosion on the timeline, an etching in the granite, not a smudge on a whiteboard.
   Wearing capes and guns, young boys acted out my adventures. Diving behind the couch to avoid the laser bombs exploding from every direction.  Shooting into the darkness at the beasts I have conquered.  Their mothers secretly wishing they could have me alone, fathers wishing they could have my
strength, courage, resolve.
  Giving in to mediocrity is when you are
so sick of painting your house that you leave it beige. 
 You open the filing cabinet again and again, shuffling your dreams in to "to dos" or "another day" category.
At some point you have to admit that you will never be a famous potter, sculptor, wood worker, MC, writer or poet. No one is going to ever read that piece you sent to the New Yorker after reading that article about Anthony Bourdain's success at 44 years old.
You are not him,
you are not that good.

I thought it would be different when I went.
I thought they would have remembered
more of what I did but the truth is they don't.
They won't.
What even makes me-me?  ? Its all bled into the crack of the sidewalk where I fell and broke my mind,
all those years ago.

But wait.
Its not over.
The hairs on the back of my neck spark like a rush of warm air in the summer night. They stand up straight when I think about the two humans we have created. They are hope.
I may not be the best but I am not the worst.
I will resonate throughout the ages through the life I have created
I am immortal
I am a father
Greatness has been achieved.
Significance has been gained.
The ego can rest.

for now