I Was Here

Maybe I should carve it,

into this wooden bar.

Or maybe I should draw it,

on the hood of a dusty car.

With a sharpie I could spell,

in bold on a bathroom stall,

the things I’d like to tell you;

left written on the wall.

A futile whisper whimpered

into deaf and careless ears,

pleads to be remembered,

by the words, I Was Here.