It sucks...

... when everybody hates you.

Dark, dark, dark -- so dark I can't even imagine light in my dreams...

There is no masterpiece, no legacy,
not even spawn,
nothing but death
standing in the middle of the highway
like a gunslinger, silhouetted,
taking steady aim, undaunted
by the speed with which I approach him.
And roadkill --
so much of that --
stinking up the wheel wells.

I live for these periods.
But they still suck.

(The poetic part is over. It's all pretty straightforward from here on in.)

After death takes his shot
and nails me
right between the eyes,
I hope they will say this
at my funeral:

He was not a good man.
He was terribly flawed.
He was crazy.
He was stupid in a lot of ways.
He treated a lot of people badly
-- unintentionally because
he wasn't a bad man,
just an imperfect one.

But he tried so damn hard.
He just never got it right.
He didn't leave much behind,
including garbage.
He didn't take anything out
of the woods, no pine cones
or wildflowers.
He tried to walk lightly on the land.
He tried. He really did,
and we appreciate that about him.

That's what I want them to say,
assuming I even have a funeral
or that anyone comes.
My luck, some pirate will
make me walk the plank,
and that will be my funeral --
the pirates cursing me as the sea
patiently extracts revenge.

Even if they make me walk the plank,
I hope it's because of attempted mutiny,
or something similarly dramatic,
and I hope at least one of those
pirates says under his breath,
"Aaarrr, at least he tried."