MY LAST POEM, JK (The Last)

On a bed
Trapped inside my head
I am dead. Maybe
Not a bed, maybe a
Box or wooden-colored
Coffin with my feet
Outstretched  and my toes
Curled. If you find me
Don't find my will or
Conduct an autopsy
Or poke my dead body
With a stick like
A pre-pubescenet
Pack of teenage
Wolves, but they are
Just kids. Take my
Journals and my
Other journals and
Glue your eyes to
The sticky inked paper
And read and then
Read then contemplate
Then read again then
Spread,

            Them to other
People and say this guy
Is dead but he
Wrote a lot of jokes
And poetry and
They are kind of cool:
"You should publicize
This stuff, wow. And
That kid was like
Seventeen? Maybe
He was a genius or
Something?" And then
They will not be mine
But the whole world's
Preserved on paper
With ink and terrible
Penmanship that some
People will not know
How to read, but
They will try.