Why a Poet Should Always be Burried with their Pen

When I was 13 I learned the power of a magic eraser

It somehow managed to remove the love poems from my bed frame

And eventually my heart

I stopped writing on my walls 

After my uncle found my sadness etched into the frame work of our house

He told me tears like yours do not make a home

So I learned to write on the insides of my wrists

Until the ink bled into the stitching of my favorite sweater

I tried burning my words onto the inside of my eyelids

But the impressions I had made the night before never lasted

in my lifetime I have killed more trees than skin cells

Using only three pages of a new notebook before managing to lose it

My mind too preoccupied with the thoughts I needed to make permanent

I often forget where I left my shoes

Too busy internalizing my own soliloquy

I sleep with a pen in my hand and cover my bed sheets in prose

 a poet will never die alone

Their words keep them company 

When they spread my ashes on the mountain tops

The valleys will forever hold my last pen strokes

If my last words are not poetic

Rewrite my story so that they were

Before you send me off into the wind

Mark my words on my skin

I need them to be forever etched into my bones

Because for a writer your words are home