when the trove is open

And they’ll rummage

through my faux-poetic, unaesthetic pile of junk

I wrote it all while very drunk

I should have kept it in the trunk

They will not understand the reasons why

I wrote the things I wrote

I only speak my truth in quotes

To process my own death in jokes

And when the trove is open

They will find the words I didn’t post

I know they’ll miss my voice the most

I closed the door, I had a choice

For many paths I didn’t see

Until I read a book or two

And still, I did it all for you

I wrote it all to look at you