Poetry That Was Never Published And Songs That Were Better Off Unsung

A millenium is made up of a thousand years, Each of which possess 10 hundreds. Of thise ten hundreds, you can brokerage one each and divide it into 365 days. Mathematics was never ny strong point, But I'm trying to calculate the seconds in a millenium to see If I have those many cells in my body. My mother and brother are storytellers Who can describe the empty depths of ravines And the jagged rise of the mountains In detail so excruciating, That you would feel they were speaking Of the lines on your hands. I am the little one, the runt of the pack, Who summarises massive epics into Pocket sized diary entries Because as the runt of the pack, My stories have never seemed interesting enough, or important enough To expand and stretch out into An openness of plains. My punch lines skedaddle and maneuver right out of control And my stories are as dry as an empty shore, But I'm trying to lift the ocean And drag it by its wrists Until it undoes its hair For the shoreline to kiss. They may be story tellers; but my stories Have emotion bled into them through More permanent ink And have magicked themselves into music My lips could never sing. And I am trying to calculate the seconds in a millenium to see If I have those many cells in my body Because I want each cell I have spent into Making myself feel, To be immortalized, in a tombstone- shaped second So that long after they no longer remain, Even time will be obligated to honour them.