I feel like waste.
Like the ground beneath me holds more value.
Like the ants and worms draw more captivation.
Even a breath feels more deserving.
As if I could fall into a crowd and the world would miss it.
As if I could dissappear tomorrow and concern would drift to the next trend.
As if I could work for days and still be asked what purpose I serve.
I am held in reserve for superficial gazes, even by those who claim closeness.
My worth aligns with disassembled machinery- valued for use, not for being.
A cry for acknowledgement that goes unanswered.
Jan 26
Jan 26, 2026 at 12:59 AM UTC
I feel like waste.
Like the ground beneath me holds more value.
Like the ants and worms draw more captivation.
Even a breath feels more deserving.
As if I could fall into a crowd and the world would miss it.
As if I could dissappear tomorrow and concern would drift to the next trend.
As if I could work for days and still be asked what purpose I serve.
I am held in reserve for superficial gazes, even by those who claim closeness.
My worth aligns with disassembled machinery- valued for use, not for being.
A cry for acknowledgement that goes unanswered.
