good enough

i am hopeful of joy through the processing

yet my childhood diaries were written like a stage
a presumption of what others wanted
should they ever read it
for sure they'd soak in every page?
with enough desperation to be seen they would

i designed my life to be penned with validatory applause

others had to know i matter
it had to be confirmed

i tried so hard in making what i was putting out there meant to be
for others to see
to be seen
with a pleading guise
i could be good enough

but who would read it? other than some dustbin or drab collector of 2086?

(they found it collecting dust on an ebay listing -
thought they'd give the old girl a chance)

but the only person reading was me

and i matter more than she ever thought i would
or did
or should

so the stage i grew up in
my pens now poked holes in
selfmade gold glistens through the eye of each puncture

light now peeking
im centre stage
but its only me watching
and my voice fills up the whole auditorium

for the first time with security
i don't sound half bad