Sometimes I think
everyone thinks
I am in my sweet spot
lucky spot
convenient
perfect place,
while I’m lying here
dying here
maybe already dead
from the pace,
of this race
sus pended
stuck
trapped
curled up
in my disgrace
‘cause I can’t be
what’s expected
what’s projected.
I might never be
anything
anyone
quotable
notable
maybe even lovable.
But is it all subjective?
I know I am not objective.
Ev.ery.thing.
depends on perspective
and I know mine is skewed.
I only see
from my view
and I could never change me
into you.