No one will line up through the night
just to see me or what I write.
No one will wait hours on end
just for a chance to maybe spend
some cash to hear my thoughts and words.
That doesn’t mean that I’m not heard.
No one will fill a stadium
to hear of the awards I’ve won.
That doesn’t mean I’m not enough.
I’m simply meant for different stuff.
My audience may be quite small
and someday won’t exist at all.
That’s not why I picked up my pen.
I can’t control how this may end.
A letter to my ancestors:
I’m one of your great-granddaughters.
I’m sorry that we never met.
My life was shaped by you and yet
we never will sit down and talk.
I’ll never see the streets you walked.
There’s stories that I’ll never know,
that are lost in time’s endless flow.
You always will be family
‘cause those who love you, now love me.
To me, you’re stories, pictures, names.
You’re reminders that life does change,
but, in the end, I love you too.
I’d not be me, if you weren’t you.
— The End —