Irrelevant

I’m not a poet; I never have been.

There are no motifs and symbols

In my thinking. I think

And I write. Irrelevant.

 

I’m not known; I’m not acclaimed.

I walk but nobody knows.

I talk but nobody cares.

All they want is to advertise

Themselves, and they want an

Animate journal.

They flip through my pages

Relentlessly. I scream and

I shout- but in vain.

 

Beyond these walls, I’m not

That much (although within them,

I’m nothing). A dot on a large map,

A speck in this room. Irrelevant.

Ignorance is bliss- I must make

Many blissful. Sadly, bliss

Is but a concept of illusion,

For it is within, but

Just a disgusting façade.

Author's Note

Please note that this is my first poem so it may not be that much. Also note that there is more to the voice than is initially evident- it's not just the voice of a whiny teenager (as many thought when I showed it to them). The voice slowly transitions from that whiny teenager to a victim of domestic abuse and/or rape around the second stanza (I wrote this poem immediately after hearing something related to this on the news)