You're sorry and it pains you to say.
     You've found solace in other people's pain. Your shoulders were made to bear weight. You've only gotten weaker due to your training of literally everything other than yourself. They can't see your fatigue, after all you're the life of the party. You don't know this, but you're their gravity. You've saved them, and everyone but you can see.
     You are a broken kingpin. You live in what's imaginary. Chess pieces to your command, instead a sacrificed king. You don't dream because that's selfish. You fell in love by circumstance. You don't think you deserve this, you think you're worthless. So do those songs that scream the same sentiment- good thing you're eclectic.
     Intermediate stage of life and you believe you understand the end. Peer into their future, pity their misfortune, manifest your worth in their misguided action.
     "No, you need to do this."
     Show them how. They don't listen. Revert again, lend a hand, upon seeing their inept expressions. You suggest to restart another fictional world you can all escape in. The prophet dictates another prediction: "We'll be here again."