Of course of being a normal teenager, these types of things are what I think of during summer break.
This poem, is called, The Number.
By Yada Pruksachatkun
I never used to know how much that single number meant.
I mean, sure, in maths, it’s symbolized by two lines, etched in black lead on a bleached white paper surface.
And that it can sometimes be considered magic because when you times any number by it, it turns out into that single number.
Like it’s some sort of invisibility cloak, but maybe that’s a joke for us math geeks.
And when it comes to integers, that number is key, but maybe thats just me.
But still, I never really know
What it all meant.
Which number am I talking about?
That letter before two and three, after zero and negative.
One word, three letters, seemingly nothing at all but how would you know?
One senior in high school, tap, tap, tapping away at a desk, so far away,
Hoping those sound waves would somehow turn into an acceptance letter
One word can mean the difference between an innocent wrongfully judged and justive servied,
And with the final and finite slam of a wooden hammer, the world dissolves into darkness.
One child, never listened nor looked at by anyone who cared.
Finds a book on the ground, and it is from there,
That he discovers a world where the size of your ego doesn’t matter
And now look at him, he’s the world’s most famous author.
One piece of advice.
One inhale, because you know, you should always try everything twice.
And twenty years later when you’re down that dark road
You look down, and say, don’t do that my son.
Because it only takes one extra inhale
to coat your lungs
One is a just a number. Or is it?