Decoration

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Not everyone is worth
Being called a human.
Some are a decoration,
I would reckon.

In the awe of mere existence,
We tend to call all the species,
HUMAN.
Yet, in all truth,
Are all deemed worth being one?

What makes a man a human?
Not a decoration amidst the ton?
A contradiction. A fallacy, in some?
Why would anyone be called a human?
In a world full of filth and disguise,
Those who pretend to be human,
Surmise the baffling existence
Of what one could’ve become,
Of whom one could have assumed.

Authentic. Realistic. Sensible.
(So far as I’ve realised),
What makes a person a mere human.
For many thrive in poppycock.
Nonsensical adventures, I would say.
To tell you they are the definition
Of what it is to be human.

Well, if one is deemed to tell you the biggest unknown,
The unveiled truth of ages,
All you could manage is to stifle a laughter
Of the paradox of one’s ignorance
For they are not, yet, smart
To see their loss.

As for me, I’m to learn
What, when, and how to be a human.
As I died to the life I forlorn,
Only to survive becoming a person.