Becoming Somebody

What does it mean to be somebody?

Isn’t everybody a somebody?

I tell myself it doesn’t matter

even though it does.

He insists I’m already somebody,

but I don’t believe it.

A grain of sand among many,

I do not command attention

nor shape the beach

the way ocean waves do—

no ripple at all.

When I speak, the room stays steady;

the wind of my voice never shifts it.

I’ve been insignificant all my life—

the last-picked coconut cream bonbon

in a heart-shaped box,

a participation certificate,

not even a bronze.

Maybe that’s why it matters so much

to see my name somewhere—

not even in flashing lights,

just print someone chose to place on a page

that lives forever on bookshelves,

in libraries.

A quiet voice still heard.

Someone out there won’t forget me.

With these words,

I’m hoping to finally

be seen.

Be heard.

Be the first robin of springtime—

singing a sweet song,

disturbing no one,

yet giving hope.