I know no one will come to my funeral.
It doesn’t feel like fear—
it feels real.

I might be the funny guy
who made others smile,
but when I died,
still… everyone smiled.

A few sighs scattered in the wind,
but even my mother
didn’t cry.

Maybe I was just a noise
that filled their quiet for a while.
A punchline
with no setup,
a memory they’ll blur—
not miss.
Even dismiss.

I left pieces of myself
in their laughter,
but no one noticed:
the funny guy
was a fighter.

Yes—
they call me a writer.