I arch for attention like a cat under the hand. Look at me. Look at me. Make me worth it. This blessing curse of looking at others dripped like tobacco juice from the corners of the mouth into how I view myself. I began to see myself as a vase to hold the flowers of another, if they chose. I am a herding dog's snap at the heels of another man's ambitions. Distracted by the dust of so many people walking purposely in their own direction. To each their own, but what is mine? Never satisfied with this body of mine, this heart of mine. Pour gasoline in my eyes if it would set my heart on fire, like hers, like his. I've only got half buried desires laid to rest in the graveyard of other people's dreams. Am I cursed to always be a mirror reflecting someone else's smile? Will I ever brush off the dust of another man's feet clinging to the bottom of my shoes, rubbing my heels as I tread a path that is not mine, lagging far behind someone's confident back. A pathetic copier is all I am. This quest for my own authenticity is drying my bones, to become dust inhaled by another's lungs.