It feels like there isn't anything left for me,
maybe there never was,
but I have this biological imperative
to cling to the wreckage.
Oh, maybe there never was,
I was just born a few seconds too late
and everything has been off since then.
The real me is in a different present,
the one where we all belong,
and I am just one of the I's that must theoretically exist,
filling up the temporal expansion of the multiverse
with tragic nonsense
and blunders.
Cut off by the on-coming traffic of better times,
they won't let me merge in,
though I keep trying to get up to speed,
like I could get there, but then the lane ends-
cut off.
Cut off from everything that is truly bathed in the light,
saturated in color, clear in tone, just a little closer to the truth-
just close enough.
And, here, the stars are just holes in the lid of my jar,
and the ocean is just god's tears over his failed creation,
and the mountains are just the teeth that can never bite down,
and
and
yeh, maybe I wasn't meant for the real show,
I was meant for putting the saddest song I know on repeat,
and writing
this
****.