The Baby Cries in Black and White (journal + poetry)

Satisfaction

So unsatisfied
We are planted with the notion that we too can
Become great.
Yet we are so far from it.
Questioning our existence is hardly a poetic pose anymore.
For we do what is natural, what our brains choose.
And we are so tired with what we've been given.
Our world's creativity has been sucked dry
Dropped onto the lands of time before us
And we are stuck.
And it hurts to feel so insignificant
To be stuck in oblivion
So much that even life's ultimate solution cannot bring satisfaction to that craving
The craving of being remembered for more than you were.
A legendary death, written in stars, splashed across faces with their grievances.
Sit and ponder on what it means to be alive, Hell we've all been there.
But to deny the human condition from of which it relies on, attention per say,
Is selfish
Though few will ever achieve in comparison to our vast chances,
Many will agree upon it's possibility as being such a satisfaction.