We all want to be important, something significant to hold.
But are we not, are we not, just words being thrown?
It’s appearance, not reality, that makes most of who we are.
You’re no better, not much better, than that man across the bar.
Our money comes in digits, on screens set up in banks.
Our existence is a number, placed on cards and on ranks.
We smile, always smile, no matter what’s going on inside.
We are the sum of words, passing on life’s wild ride.
Gossip fuels the system, we are just a means to an end.
Scandal and well-doings are her greatest friends.
We provide the stories, forgotten in the end,
no matter how ludicrous, how crazy, or grand.
We all want to be remembered, for making some sort of change,
but how can we, when our living has no range?
It barely reaches the hearts, of those that are near.
For everybody else, we’re merely the sum of words that they hear.
BY NATASHA GO