i always thought those books that i read
in lover's conflicts and wars they dealt
meant something beyond these images in my head
meant more than mere novels, something the poets felt
but oh boy, was i terribly wrong
i made my own suffering prolong,
i ain't the "forever" material or ****,
simply a means to an end is what fits,
i will never be nobody's moon or stars
because i am adorned with scars
given by life, it's people and it's maker
all through these 22 years of being a waker
rejected, dejected and an outcast at it's best
i ain't special but simply different from the rest
a fool i have been all along, believing it was my superpower
oh good lord, i was simpy never on anybody radar
the unlikable, unwanted and unlovable soul
who had no poise, passion or a gritty goal
i have been loitering in delusion, hallucinating the impossible
all the while i have done nothing but been an imbecile
i maybe good but never great
in the world of curves, a definite straight
being humble was my only shot at becoming better
but in the end, it got me to this point where i am typing this letter by letter
all i am is a wishful thinker who lives in the world of imagination
a dull, boring kid trapped in an adult's body and adaptation
a stupid girl who is the easiest of all
an ugly-hearted, too trusting of a call
i am pathetic, the dumbest being to ever grace this planet
as useless and replaceable as the middle of a magnet