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I am not a leader 

I am not a fighter 

I’m not even really a voice. 


My talent is fake 

My ability is fabricated 

And not my own 

And my passions lie comatose. 


My childhood has been dissected 

My friends have disappeared 

My dreams have been forgotten 

But none of this is their fault. 



Most of the time 

I can’t help but worry about my place in things 

Or what I’m worth 

Except that I shouldn’t be first 

And maybe the farther the better. 


I know that some people say 

That they like me or 

That I’m good at things 


I don’t try to shut them out 

But their comments stay on the surface 

Like cold butter, and I think 

That I can’t make them care 

And if they do, care enough 

They’ll be willing to breathe on the butter 

Until it melts. 


Otherwise, I just keep on 

Like normal 

Surrounded by all kinds of butter 

Ignoring, for the most part, 

The butter I pat on others 

Because their butter sits 

On my head, cold. 


And I worry 

About the butter over my heart 


With honey 

And as melted as you’ve ever seen. 


Only because of the pat 

of cold, hard, slimy, and salty butter 

that I hurriedly slap on the honeypot 

and never take the time to melt. 


I wonder, sometimes 

If that noxious pat of butter 

Will slip onto the floor 

So that I slip onto the floor 

In pain. 


Because I am comatose now 

With my passions. 

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