No one understands me.
This is the cliche of our nation, the state that we are living in. Fifty thoughts united in a monotonic screech:
I am unique.
I stand alone
cries a chorus of far too many, far too desperate voices, and not a single one of us can hear the awful irony of the moment. We are trapped, eight billion minds on a planet once too large but now overwhelmed by the creation of our fantasy. We are swimming with our worthless limbs like our long-ago ancestors in a bacterial brook, where chance and not reason dictates what we will become, and who becomes the lucky one. Tumbling through the stream that we call life, this fragile microbial organism I have labeled "myself" is threatening to burst with triviality.
I am important!
I pout, but there's no changing fact
and the fact is, no one will remember this life passed by
in a brief hundred years.
And yet, I hope.
I leave words trailed behind me like the train of a magnificent ball gown,
the flit of a butterfly's delicate wings,
the scent of a loved one when the wind blows by
as I leave behind me an art only recognized by the linguists of my race. I pray to make an impact, express my lonely intellect in a way that will never be forgotten, a way that gathers meaning with time but never dust, and through this, preserve my soul from impending implosion.
I release my aching passion through the scratching of this pen; I draw my breath each day through the words spilling out like blood across so many pages. My being is painted, one stroke at a time, by ideas I express, and serenity comes only when the words no one cared to listen to have finally
been laid
to rest.