Lost in paper

My life — an unfinished book.

It stands unread, wrapped in thick cobwebs,

Where no light ever reaches —

Only shameful sorrow breathes through the lines.

My creator is no god, but a living man.

He spills ink endlessly:

Writes, crosses out, rewrites the cast…

It hurts. Wait. Don’t take away my will.

My feelings — smudges of ink,

Drop by drop on every page.

I try to grasp: does he live my life for me?

Does he ache when I ache?

My life — shades of damp concrete,

And in the square — it’s wet and sticky.

Where can I find peace that’s real?

Or is my path just slaughter?

Does he live off stories? Off profit?

Maybe my tale’s just a sitcom rerun.

He’s filled a hundred pages, this poet —

The one I once called my creator.

Royalties. Loud “bravos.”

Grand phrases like “What a miracle!”

A bestseller on massive platforms —

A hundred fans of cruelty will praise his “wonder.”

But know this: I’m just a dusty tome

Trapped in the noise of a muddy swamp.

No more applause will ever come —

I was lost in paper.