Pen in Hand

Pen in hand, I try to write a masterpiece
An object of undying beauty
To make people weep
To make them question their existence
To somehow yell to the world:
"I am here.
I was here.
I will be damned if you forget me."
What irony if no one listens?

Why do I need to be remembered?
What gives me the gall?
Who gave me the right to be beloved?
When my parents 

(A thousand times my betters) 

Will be names beloved only to the few who knew them.
They didn't get immortality.
What gives me the right to reach?

Perhaps I mistake adoration for love,
For understanding.
I want recognition, but fear intimacy
A museum piece sits admired, but untouched.
That way it will be safe.
That way I will be safe.
That way I can't hurt again.
You will remember my name, but you'll never know who I am.
Sometimes I think I'd like it better that way.

I reach up, because reaching out is so much harder
I seek respect because it is simpler than love
I write my masterpiece so my music becomes me, 
So I become my music
I can be subsumed into something that will answer your questions for me.
So I can be silent, yet speak volumes.
So that I can beat death.

Reviews

[Raveness]

i love this poem! it's great!