I was born into shadows, not into light,
Since breath began, nothing felt right.
Not broken by moment, but by design,
A stranger to joy, even in my prime.
Thirty one years, I’ve watched life unfold,
Not in color, just quiet and cold.
Not hated, not loved, just unseen,
Like dust on a shelf, caught in between.
No one has called me their reason to smile,
No one has asked me to stay for a while.
I’ve spoken in rooms that swallowed my sound,
I’ve stood in the crowd but never been found.
What good have I done? What trace have I made?
My efforts feel hollow, my memories fade.
Just ticking through time, a silent parade,
Existing, not living, a slow, aching fade.
And yet, here I am, heart still in chest,
Wounded but breathing, unrested, unblessed.
Each morning I wake feels more like a dare,
To face one more day when no one is there.
So if I am nothing, not needed, not known,
Why does the ache still cut to the bone?
Perhaps it’s the proof, however unfair,
That even unseen, I’m still something there.
