Dead when I’m discovered,
too late to know me then,
if not for these thoughts
that kept falling from my head
and landing on a pen.

Mistaken mostly in my time,
misunderstood when given no rhyme,
haunted by the what ifs and whys
of something buzzing as I die.

Eccentric at best,
old maid at worst,
rolling over in my grave
when they find my curse
and dissect my verse.

Funny, the only world I ever understood
was the one I created in my head.