She sits at the table in her kitchen,
Wondering how things got like they did.

She pulls out her journal,
And wonders how things turned out as they did.

She's tried hard to be a good person,
In her family, mind, and soul.

Somewhere she went terribly wrong.
Somehow she became the unimportant one

She writes down her thoughts,
wondering how to fix the things that have gone so wrong.

She shares her heart with the page,
And she cries softly to herself.

She sits.
She wonders.
She cries.
She tries.

She is the Unimportant one.


Penned by my hand on the 19th of Scarlatan, in the year 258 AF.