Forgotten

I always wonder why
the ink is white
When I try to write
About myself.
In middle of a dark and
cold night,
Here I am
Trying to figure out
"Who am I and what do
I really want to be?
Am I a loser who wants to be a
conquerer
Or am I just a moth
playing with fire?"
But when it comes to
you my love,
my pen is endlessly
black. Maybe
somewhere in a book
Which is full of
tales and adventures,
I am just a narration
You will never hear
about.

Author's Note

Kindly ignore grammatical errors.