Naught but a stain

I have been thinking and I have uncovered that
my poetry is nothing
my prose, nothing
All my musings and sadness amounts to not one grain of sand
I am naught but a speck—
neigh microscopic stain
on the fabric of the universe
You cannot even distinguish the blemish that I am
for that is how irrelevant my compositions are

I am not bleeding this drivel in depression
it is merely a recognition, a reminder
of just how small we are
just how small I am
I can squeeze into a suitcase or beneath a desk
make myself flat and discreet
be quiet and disposable

I can be forgotten by the cosmos
and I am
but it’s no crying shame,
it’s just that there are many billions of things greater than I
far more remarkable and beautiful and brilliant
I know this to be true so do not try to tell me that I am special
because I know that is a lie

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