How seemingly important we are, and how literally unimportant
In one hundred years we will be only whispers, if even so
Because attention is only given
To those who demand it
We only notice those who are standing on the table
Screaming until they're red-faced and winded
And someone turns around and watches
While all the rest of us just float.
Invisible
But maybe that's best
Wandering ghosts
Just
Trying
Not
To
Sink
Hoping someone will pick us up and love us as the phantoms we are.
But being faceless is so much work
And sometimes we forget to love ourselves
And there we sit, gathering dust on the shelves
A book no one wants to pick up and escape with
Because perhaps the cover isn't the prettiest
And maybe there are some scary monsters inside
But every book should be loved by someone.
And someday the fresh, neat ink will fade
And the pages will crumble
Just like every memory and thing and someone that is
Falling into unimportance with the invisible and the long-lost.
Dreaming and never waking
Forever a phantom
Born to be simple
The dark side of the moon
The shadows behind the sun
Haunting
Always feeling lower than the rest
Here without a quest
Drifting
The dying star before the supernova
I see you, darling.
***(A/N)*** I don't know if this is any good or not but we're doing slam poetry in class so I tried to do something of that style. Idk
