I am a Cliche

  I am a blank slate a nothing. The slightest shift of the canvas rocks my unsteady hand, creating a thin quavering line, so jagged, so twisted that its hardly recognizable as an attempt at a soul. I am a broken wheel steering this ghost ship out to shark infested waters again and again, I’m the fraying rope, the broken boards, I am the wreck at the bottom of the sea, forgotten by time but not by nature and her fists beating on me like the words of my friends. I am a cliché, nothing new, nothing special, just a scribble in chalk across the spans of Life, blown away by the winds of time. I am destined to sit and watch, cursed by love and life, or lack thereof. I am the thorn sticking into your calf with every step, not enough to warrant stopping to look, just enough to be annoying. I am the feel of sand on your leg or dirt in your shoe, a nuisance, an annoyance, easily washed away. Nothing more, nothing less. I am small, I am insignificant, I am nothing. Not yet.