I see the stories that their life has shared.
The pages filled with crisply printed ink.
Poems through separate worlds on screen.
Old Books crumbling to ash behind them.
The monitor's pixel spell.
How can they?
To see others have triumphed.
To see others above?
It fills my heart with blackened joy,
To see them excel in things I can do better.
Do I though?
I'm not worthy to even be here.
I'm just another,
Like the thousands countless before me.
They will all over look me.
They will all over bear me.
They will all over pass me.
And again,
I am to be left behind.
An old book chipped away by time.
Only useful to the vermin that feed off me.
The world revolving.
Not a care in the world.
Not one bother for the one's left,
Left alone to crumble into nothingness.
A galvanizing topic turned by bittersweet.
No more has left the surface.
No more than an old soul,
No more than the old souls
Left behind to rot.
Fuck you world.
Why do you hate me so much?
YOU ARE READING
The Words That Hope To Carry,
Puisi"I don't want to be the one Who breaks down at the cost of something very little. Or rather, what seems like something very little to others, But means a breaking point to me." A series of poems, haiku's, tanka's, readings, stories, and monologues...
