What will be when I am gone?
I think this question, thinking I’ll go on
But for all I know, I could die tomorrow
Then, would my loved ones grieve in sorrow?
Maybe I’m just thinking too much, I do that a lot
Thinking it through, my thoughts seem to be all I’ve got
And is it sad that I might not leave an impression on this world?
What happens to all the poems, books, and stories left to be unfurled?
I suppose they’ll just stop, they’ll vanish from thought and from mind
It must be true then that we have to live like we’re running out of time
Otherwise there’s no guarantee the things you mean to do will stay
You’re born, you live, and you die, life always comes to an end that way
But what will happen when I die? Will someone write me a eulogy?
There will be people who miss me, and plenty of them will cry, surely
But what will there really be to miss? Who have I impacted and touched?
Is life really so fleeting and so worthless that I take the easy route, not the rough?
I feel a little melancholy, unsure of why this is bothering me so young
Maybe I’m destined to struggle and strive, and do my best until I’m done
But is it wrong to think of the future so morbidly, you think?
I have yet to leave my mark on this world, determine my rank
I swear that people will remember me, not just my death
The world will know me, from the things I left
Whether people like me, ought to, or not
I refuse to be just a passing thought
I will live on immortal
With peace in my soul