Poem A Day

July Twenty-Eighth (Worthy)

Does it mean being worth it?

Because then I am not worthy.

I'm not a monster that hides in the broom closet of my rib cage,

But I am disappointing and worth nothing more than a nameless corpse,

Clacking in the background after a hero stumbles by,

Someone with an eye for the contours and the details,

Who sees the world's magnificence and brilliance,

And takes charge, makes whole of everyone around them.

I never thought I'd say this but I'd rather be behind them.

I'd rather be lying around staring at the stars till I starve,

Broken educated man on the street worth nothing more than the pennies he keeps,

In the back pockets of the last pants he wore.

The voice in my head says more,

Let the literature pile like litter making new islands in the sea.

But no I am not worthy.

These words see more than the mouth that beheld them,

And they'll grow someday in the ears of someone who'll be,

Someone more worth it than me.