May your contribution
to the thread of life be more
than reminders of your vanity.

it's an ironic pity
that in the culmination
of every second
I've wasted in
apathetic procrastination,
an ambitious child
of less opportunity
could have achieved
amazing feats.

read consistently,
learn diligently,
and write profusely

so that beyond lifetimes
of persistent practice
produced from painful,
arthritis-stricken fingers
may you birth a humble book

in its eternal years,
as many mute manuscripts,
it shall collect continents of dust
until it finally bares relevance
due by your unfortunate
final, unheard breaths.

but near such justly demise,
you will rage and reach forth,
to hope an innocent youth
may learn the many mistakes
collected and condensed
from one life to years to weeks,
summarized by your trembling hands.

yet I fear, as you may too,
that as we fade from existence,
our voice echoes lost;
our words unread forever,
to exist untouched
as a decorative piece
on a pretentious bookshelf.

“Their
                                                Lives live like lyrics
                                                From popular radio songs
                                                Where the guy gets the girl,
                                                The girl is the prom queen,
                                                And they party the night away.
Success
                                                Seems to ****** those who fail
                                                Who go at such lengths to achieve,
                                                Yet what is it in its moment
                                                That feels so fine, taste so sweet;
                                                What does it truly mean?
Should
                                                I stand still, watching them gain
                                                Again and again, repetitious,
                                                Always comparing the scale,
                                                Watching their side stand strong
                                                As mine catapult into the air?
Not
                                                Many like them know the pain
                                                Of watching others win as I lose
                                                In this competition of competence,
                                                Where mine don’t measure
                                                To their minds complete.
Bring
                                                In the cars and the clothes
                                                As my cries contained creep
                                                From crevices and cracks
                                                That I hide through sinister smiles
                                                Conveying careless comparisons.
You
                                                Have more, you have it all,
                                                And in this picture, you stand tall
                                                As I shrink down to this little form:
                                                Invisible, unworthy, inadequate;
                                                To you:  I am worthless.
Pain
                                                Punches the powerless,
                                                Deepening bruises self-inflicted
                                                From this mind that cannot mend
                                                The idea that we are all different
                                                And success is deemed the same.
But
                                                I remain, sobbing still and silent,
                                                No action planned nor taken,
                                                Waiting for success to land in my palm,
                                                Focusing too much on the artists
                                                Instead of using such lyrics as
Motivation.”

If I were to ask
"who are you"
would you take the time
to have a conversation
with me and share your:
likes and dislikes,
loves and fears,
dreams and worries,
and strengths and insecurities,
becoming closer
as we had set out to be?
Or would you remain
my anonymous acquaintance
and simply share
only your name?

Through sweat-filled labor
and unrelenting love,
my patient parents
meticulously molded
strong shoes to fit,
making each effort efficient
and all materials durable
so that if I were to walk
the path full of broken glass,
my skin would not tear,
my spirit not diminish,
and through their sacrifices,
prevent my blood
from staining the street.

Call me the butterfly maker,
for I the distracted crafter
often carves irregular squares
from changing planes of vision
into visual planes, flying
as monarchs migrating home.

Call me the snowflake cloud,
for I the cold observer
often molds objective droplets
from forgotten formalities
into memorable figures, coveting
as blankets embracing dirt.

Call me the stone sculptor,
for I the traveling poet
often lifts stone castings
from feeble footprints
into familiar portraits, beckoning
as mothers procuring peace.