And I, no less

Who am I to think I deserve good things
to think I am worthy of praise
that I ought to be discussed, thought about, regarded?
Who am I to think my words carry power
that they paint a picture
that they do anymore than capture a moment of my being
one that passes like any other?
Why would I want to be noticed or smiled upon
with patience and measured balanced time
with more than a casual mention?
What am I to do but
rise and toil
work and sow
plan and dream?
I, no more than anyone else, deserve such things.
And I, no less. expanse

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