The city has a story to tell.
Rumour has it you do too,
But I’m afraid you won’t always
Be around to tell it.
Sure, you can feel tall and mighty
Watching beetles on the pavement,
But riddle me this:
I was once 11,
Now I’m 21;
Soon I’ll be 31,
Then 101…
Look up at the clouds and skyscrapers;
The city doesn’t care
About the people on the pavement.
It doesn’t even see the beetles.
This universe
Works the same way too;
In light years you might as well
Not exist…
Yet you still insist
That your writing isn’t good
And rejection hurts
???
Dead people would call you crazy.
The universe doesn’t care,
So listen to the ghosts,
And stop caring too.
Inspired by J. Truant’s book ‘The Universe Doesn’t Give a Flying F**k About You’
pickpoetry 