That I must
never
be read
will be clear
from the vacuous
vocabulary
I must borrow from
and still
there are memories
or phantoms
of an uncertain past
the magic bricks
I thought I could
move with one
finger
the trees that watched
my infant
nothingness
I must never be read
my life is already
buried by dust
there are braver men
out there…
with fear
the embodiment
of disaster
that I call
“breathing”
is not
of any use…
there will be
peaceful silence
when this and other
poems
are no more…
they can’t surface
but sink
drop,
deeply,
disappear.
Beyond Language 
I really love this poem. As a fellow writer, it truly touched me. Respect.
Seriously, thanks for your comment. I was so apprehensive to let this poem out since it is so personal and what may seem conceited, but as a writer the thought of being read is always returning and so is the crude reality that we will perish without being understood.