For the time I have been breathing
I have always been surpassed
I’ve never been substantial
Never have I been praiseworthy
I have always been adequate, passable
I’m always showed up by the adept
I have the passion but not the aptitude
I love to run, but I find myself falling behind
I love to write, but I’ll never be considered an author or poet, I’ll never be Shakespeare
I love to sing, but no one would gather to hear my voice
I love scholastics, but I’ll never be Aristotle
I feel lackluster, because I’ll never be pervaded with talent