You probably don't care.
I don't mind.
I plead that you at least look at me.
But you probably don't care.
At night, sometimes I look up in the sky and stare into the obliviousness of it.
I don't believe in wishes, but I still look upon the silver ball.
YOU ARE READING
The Diary of a Forgotten One
PoetryThe world is like clay. It can be molded into a beautiful thing. Sometimes the clay dries and someone or something chips a part of it...it can't be fixed unless you glue it up, but it won't be the same.
