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Pathetic by ~withdrawncataclysm:iconwithdrawncataclysm:

Categories Literature > Poetry > Philosophical > Open


Who am I to say
That I am pathetic

I have no right.

That sort of wisdom
Belongs to entities
That cannot be recognized
The movements we see
But then aren't there
They hold my definition out of my reach
Because none are to be trusted
With the truth

We are just to juggle the evidence
Until we are out of breath
And as we perspire
They laugh jauntily
Knowing we are fruitless beings
At times not even amounting
To meager entertainment

So you see
I could feel ashamed
And dastardly disappointed
In my use of this flesh
But I would merely be bluffing

Since when it comes to my being
In all that it encompasses
My conscious self
Is barely part of the equation
©2008-2009 ~withdrawncataclysm
:iconwithdrawncataclysm:

Author's Comments

I wrote this after pondering about my self-worth.

Comments


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:iconbelletryst:
~belletryst Apr 11, 2009, 11:28:31 AM
I adore this poem; the recognition of the futility of dissecting the self, and yet knowing that it is who you are to do it, and instead of stopping, for knowing just how pointless things can be sometimes, continuing on, being yourself, and recognizing that there is more to you than just what you think of yourself.

But to me, this is what it means to be a writer, a poet, a human.

Great, great work.

--B.R. Belletryst.

--
--Follow the fireflies.
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May 10, 2008
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