Sunday, May 13, 2012

Death by Rachel J. Clark

I see hands reaching from the dirt
beside the sidewalk,
under a city built on past civilizations
and losses taken
and I wonder who they all were
that this land was taken from
and who they are in the cemetery,
the one that isn't full of celebrities,
and who stepped in front of a speeding bus
and if anyone will remember them
in a year
and I wonder if
I work really, really hard
and write a lot of words
and scream my own name from
tall buildings
and sell my image on
Hollywood Blvd next to
the hot dog stand
and persuade people to pay
attention to me and my work,
if it will even matter when I'm dead.

I don't care if people
fifty years from now know
what I did to get here,
or even if they ever read my shit.
I just want to know that
someone, somewhere, will
remember me.
I fear being forgotten
more than I fear death.
Is it prideful to do so?
Or is it a primal need as old as Man
to make our mark on the planet
I suppose I'll never know the difference
if people forget who I am a week
after I take my last breath,
but I can't help but wish
that the future will know me.

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