It isn’t supposed to mould
Into something you deem artsy,
Buried down under looming shadows of
The great ones that have come before,
And the ones that are yet to come.
It isn’t supposed to fit into some
Half-crazed, half-lit niche of your mind,
Only for you to ponder upon half-heartedly,
While you sip your morning tea.
It isn’t supposed to move mountains or break oceans,
Or drive you into giggling smiles,
Queitly creeping in to make you feel
What you’ve never felt before.
It isn’t supposed to drive you,
To do something, of that wonderful life of yours.
It isn’t supposed to empower you, or please you,
Or anything you, for that matter.
It just is, like it is.