Remember when you told me this life of mine
was nothing but a tiny thread nestled
somewhere between the fabric of life?
That it was insignificant, what I did and what I aspired to do.
“Change is easier said than brought”, you said
And I, with shoulders slumped and muscles loose,
I believed myself to be
a mote of dust
drifting randomly around the cloth covered furniture in a locked up room.
You convinced me that my words
had no power, no strength to support the stumbling
of those who read them and tried to discern meaning.
And I, with limp fingers, let my pen drop and allowed those reams of paper in my hand
to fly to their death and rest as ash in my fireplace.
Remember when you robbed a girl of her passion?
You were wrong.
Because I might be
a meaningless thread, but I am the one that is keeping
the fabric from unraveling.
Insignificant is just a word you tote to hide those sticky creatures
you let loose to prey on young dreams.
Because my words may be flecks of sand, but the castle they build
is the hiding place of a million other dreamers.