the forgetful and the forgotten

A common man's life, more notable than mine-
with no title to distinguish it otherwise,
I’m an empty page, with so much to say
But no money to employ the scribe

Yet you who sees and feels all things-
each square of ground on which I step
Surely knows the words I’d choose
Or even better yet-
The ones I at this hurried pace
Most likely would forget

The wonderful author,
The celebrated pen,
The forgotten creator
Of all that we spend
on books we don’t read
And stories that end-
Apart from the one within us.