People hurrying, scurrying past,

Can't be bothered with a smile.

Same routine everyday,

Year after year. No where to go, but stay.

Others come and go,

Filtered through, like a funnel until there is no more.

I'm just the number at the bottom of the page.

Important to some, noticed by few

Only when you need something.

Nevertheless always there.

And when the last word is said, letter typed,

Page turned, and light dimmed,

My light dims too.

And I realize this is not the job for me,

Maybe you.

 

I have to get out, I have to go,

Somewhere. Anywhere.

Make a stament, communication,

Problems, issues, awareness.

Not with my voice, but with my hands,

With a medium, an anonymity behind a piece.

Turn blank white walls into

A message, a teacher, a work of art.

A manefestation of ideas, and hours

Delicately laced for the purpose to convey.

Left up to you to decide what it implies.

For the gallery walls are calling me;

Not the countless stacks, shelves and hangers

That surround me.