Spilled Ink

i would love to speak how the others do but even my theatre of thought is a man on a soapbox louder, given better acoustics, the angry man there to boom even over the other. while the bystanders focus on the fight i fade into the obscurity i've realized was made for me. there will always be someone louder. someone with an opinion that's more important than mine, someone who would interrupt an eulogy should it not be theirs, and i am left with my soft voice, shaking fingers, listening never speaking, never participating because why should i bother anymore should my thoughts be posted to bulletin boards, or an 'open' sign that leads to a brick wall so the wandering eye can get their words in, too, above mine, just so i can say i was acknowledged? if a man matters as much as the words he speaks then i am only worth spilled ink