of rants and poems.

bluh.

But then there's my real problem.

I'm not outstanding.

There aren't parts of me

That you want to grab on to.

There aren't pieces of me

That you'll remember later.

Or make you smile.

There's nothing in me

That makes you want to hold me.

There's no traits that you'll remember

And my name won't stick in your mind.

I'm mostly a copy.

I'm not original, or different.

There are a hundred thousand people

That could replace me.

And I'm aware of that.

I know there's no proving I'm special.

Because I'm not.

There is nothing about me

That will make you want to think about me

And I can't change it.

I know it.

So I'm going to have to keep thinking.

I'm going to have to hide.

I'm going to have to stuff myself away.

There's nothing about me

That anyone will want to remember

In a year or two.

So let me run around

Let me see you smile

And let me believe I'm worth remembering.

When really

I'm just a copy among hundreds,

Hundreds that could make you happy.

And tons that could do the same I do.

Because there's no special in me.

I am just a duplicate

With not-good-enough qualities.

None that will keep you around.

And none that make me feel good

Because I'm just a butterfly,

With the same wings and build,

Laughing because I fly a bit odd.

As if that could catch your eye.

And as if that

Would keep my name

In your mind.