This is a poem that nobody will read, lost in the inter-web of more famous,
less important things.
The sun will still shine as the clouds provide shade. The grass will still grow and the smoke suffocates.
Just like my life, I’ll watch the clouds turn into smoke and snow will still fall on my grave.
I’m a nobody man with nobody goals; the day I die, nobody’ll know.
Mr. Average Joe will achieve more fame than me.
Roses will grow if you pull out the weeds, but in a nobody’s life, there is no grounds keeping.
I have no one to love and all else to hate. I eat with my hands, never heard of a plate.
I will not be the news, lest we remember.
I am the obituary nobody wrote.
You read poems and white lies.
If you found mine you’ll glimpse through the headlines.
I am nobody’s son, nobody’s daughter.
I am nobody’s lamb, still being slaughtered.
I am nobody’s sickness, nobody’s wealth.
I am nobody’s orphan, everybody’s offering; an exchange for ignorant bliss.
I am the last straw in my neighborhood’s bid.
Who am I?
Just some fifteen year old black kid.