I thought that I was original.
I thought that I was someone!
I thought that my words could touch
Lamenting souls and that we could rekindle
Our lives.

Oh, how I was wrong...

I am nothing special.
I am merely a slave repressed by society's
******* standards!
I am just a dried piece of clay
Thrown down by the hands of a wounded artist.

Why does my life matter if no one will even sit long enough to listen to it?