We are all just another drop in the ocean.

A drip off a single icicle into a vast wasteland of soon to be the past.

One more unnoticed bug pressed against the windshield of society,

shortly to be wiped away by a new generation.


Seven billion people,

a number which keeps growing.

Yet, we still find the desire to be memorable.


Pain, hidden deep, caused by a lost soul,

only to be mended at the hands of being found, discovered.


All of us attempting to open the eyes ignorant to our existence,

hoping billions of feet will stumble upon the little bump you are on the road of excellency.


The want, the need to be not a drop, but a hurricane in such a ocean.

To be so weighted on the icicle, the rest breaks off with you,

descending down lovingly, in honor, into the wasteland,

accepting the past as it is with you.

To be the lonely surviving bug which flies past the car of society, straight through a new generation, landing only at Remembered Forever.


We ask ourselves this:

What is the purpose to breathe amongst billions of others on this planet

if not to do something extraordinary?


Nevertheless, our battle to glory is neverending.

It is but a cycle from fame to forgotten.


The time will come where even the greats will be nameless.


Every hurricane recedes into the ocean once again.

All icicle, no matter the load or support, lie in the same wasteland,

forevermore fading into the past,

constantly receiving drips and breaks until time ends.

The land of Remembered Forever will surely become a road frequently traveled

as generations continue on,

running into those bugs there, and wiping them away.


Days end, and so do people.

Memories fade, as do the pictures.

But time never stops,

she goes on, past the finish line,

and nobody ever finds a way to beat her.

-Hannah Dulin

A Drop in the Ocean


We are all just another drop in the ocean.

A drip off a single icicle into a vast wasteland of soon to be the past.

One more unnoticed bug pressed against the windshield of society,

shortly to be wiped away by a new generation.


Seven billion people,

a number which keeps growing.

Yet, we still find the desire to be memorable.


Pain, hidden deep, caused by a lost soul,

only to be mended at the hands of being found, discovered.


All of us attempting to open the eyes ignorant to our existence,

hoping billions of feet will stumble upon the little bump you are on the road of excellency.


The want, the need to be not a drop, but a hurricane in such a ocean.

To be so weighted on the icicle, the rest breaks off with you,

descending down lovingly, in honor, into the wasteland,

accepting the past as it is with you.

To be the lonely surviving bug which flies past the car of society, straight through a new generation, landing only at Remembered Forever.


We ask ourselves this:

What is the purpose to breathe amongst billions of others on this planet

if not to do something extraordinary?


Nevertheless, our battle to glory is neverending.

It is but a cycle from fame to forgotten.


The time will come where even the greats will be nameless.


Every hurricane recedes into the ocean once again.

All icicle, no matter the load or support, lie in the same wasteland,

forevermore fading into the past,

constantly receiving drips and breaks until time ends.

The land of Remembered Forever will surely become a road frequently traveled

as generations continue on,

running into those bugs there, and wiping them away.


Days end, and so do people.

Memories fade, as do the pictures.

But time never stops,

she goes on, past the finish line,

and nobody ever finds a way to beat her.