Soul Poetry

Just an uncounted number,

left out of the census of life,

I have yet to make my mark,

apart from mother and wife.

My fifteen minutes of fame,

are slowly ticking away.

Dreams are farther out of reach,

as age and years betray.

A lone struggle to be heard,

with a voice that only whispers low.

No one can hear above the din,

in a world of status quo.

So on pages I place my thoughts,

life in verse written down.

Explained through action and description,

penned with verb and noun.

But will anyone ever read my book?

These words of a woman's self.

Will it make my statements known,

or will it sit, lone on a shelf?

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