the messiah complex

romantically,

i am stardust.

literally,

i am a cell, busted.

truthfully,

i am nothing but an

i am.

and if you can shout louder

into the void

than i can,

why am i even here?

my words do not make me special.

this is just chicken scratch

in legible handwriting,

dipped in black ink.

i am no more holy

than a whore-

my being is

no more exceptional

than yours.

i want to believe

i am special.

i want to revel

with the rest of the dreamers

in the stars.

but goddamn reality

always gets the best of me

and i can never forget

what we are.

we are nothing more than

flesh and bone-

everything else is just

pretend-

playing god

in dress-up games

and taking his shoes off

when the pastime's over.

i am no savior.

i can't fly

any more than a

skipping stone.

foolishly

i have let myself believe

that i am more than nothing-

i have denied my own

reality.

truthfully,

i am.

you are.

that's all we'll ever be.