I wonder,
If I'll be the first
To be forgotten.
I don't really fit in.
My achievements,
They only are lowly.
In the eyes of the world,
I am captive of the coming grave.
No memory will be.
Simply existing.
Wishing I could believe,
That their pretense is real.
If people have heart for I,
Then what is it about me,
That they don't care for?
I don't talk unless prompted.
Been I've lost alone,
Beckoning for this "mentor".
For this "friend".
They'll never come.
Lover that they come as,
How I wish to call support,
And boast about their colors.
But I find myself to do so, I cannot.
How can I claim awe and beauty,
When poison has left me clouded?
I don't know.
I wish for those rights.
