Youngest Child
I am an afterthought,
Unnecessary to the plot.
A seed so frail,
Poured out an empty pail.
Like a weed I grow,
My roots running shallow.
Look in envy,
At these walls so empty.
Just something to bring a smile,
But only last a while,
Then go away,
Before you stray,
Into that unconvincing truth,
Away from youth.
A mirror knows,
Not what it shows,
But wonders all the same.
Could it be,
That what I see,
Is still unknown,
Not imagination overblown.
I look into myself,
And see an empty shelf,
Of empty frames;
Dreams I cannot claim.
I cannot fill,
But cannot be still.
Against myself I rage,
With every single empty page.
A template incomplete,
Still supposed to compete,
Against their highs and lows,
And heaven only knows,
The dream I cannot claim.
The rules may not apply,
But not because I’m sly.
I did not come to play,
Yet here I have to stay.
You tell me its unfair,
But politely lend a chair,
For me to sit and wait,
Careful not to complain.
Yes, regretfully stare,
At your lended chair,
Shake your head,
At this undeveloped head.
Call me a martyr,
I’m not trying harder.
Call me a tyrant,
My screams are silent,
For I have suffered nothing.
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