I wanna be immortal! Not in the literal sense, but I want my flames to be as perpetual as the candle light on JFK’s burial site.
I have heard some say that I am down to earth; I suppose that explains why they mistook me for a doormat but I want them to remember that I had Iron bars, they should’ve called me hematite.
I wanna be remembered; not just for the snaps at my punchlines but for the images of hope I made their minds visualize on.
I want my name to be remembered amongst the stars; for the times I glowed in the dark with only words that could outshine the Alpha Centauri.
I have heard them say that I am fearless; but I want them to remember that the only reason I kept on going was my belief in my fellow youths, because the only place I could ever be bald was a barbershop and surreptitiously, I too was a coward.
I don’t want them to remember me as just another poet; nah! I want them to know that I was a Bohemian artist and on days like this I’d use my pen as a weapon to fire at my discomforts, like the termination of employment.
I want them to remember me as a revolution; a movement for change and a voice of an African youth.
I want them to remember me for almost making them cry; because the only reason my poetry was filled with Rhapsody is that I put my life in them stories; so you could call me Lord Voldermot because for every poem I scribbled, I lost a hocrux and I suppose that makes me a Potter too.
I want them to remember me as the Memory Child and this has nothing to do with royalty but Kings never fall, they just bless the ground; so I just want them to remember me through the vicissitudes of time as KingTMC…