When we were little, our parents told us,
That we where stars.
Everyone was the best at something,
And we were good at our own talent.

Well…
They f***ing lied.

There are those among us, that walk,
high.
They shape the world, and we all know there name.

I used to think I was one.
But I’m not.

I can sing-
But I’m usually off key-
And the only instrument I can play,
Is a godman tamborine.

I can write, too.
But can’t make a rhyme.

Also, I’m gay!
But I’m not the most flamboyant.
So I don’t get the attention,
Or the spotlight.

I’m white-
And I’m a dude.

I’m depressed-
But not suicidal.
So they write it off,
As self-pity.

I realize this,
As i’m sitting on the floor,
After a counterpoint verbal duel,
with my dear mother.

And it hits me-
As I stare into the void,
Like a broken angel statue,
Alone in a sea of souls-

That if I die,
Right now.
Today.
I’ll be forgotten.

The stars won’t cry,
the world and the presses won’t stop.
The funeral will be half-assed,
And everyone I know will have moved on in a year or two.

So what have I learned?
To accept my fate of
Insecurity,
And obscurity?

Au, contraire.
I may hurt myself,
But I want to live.
I want to be known.

I want to live my life,
In a way,
And a mannor,
That will make the stars weep for me.