What is it like to be painfully average? I don’t know, let me think.
Mediocre is a word I revile and despise
And yet, behind it, my identity lies
Tasked with painfully average endeavors
I struggle for Bs, Cs are my neighbors.
When I touch it it stays, somehow worse than dying
For dying things change, no change is like lying
I can’t make it better, I can make it worse
But even in “worse” inconsequential of course
Even my rhyming is bland and banal
Not a word out of place not a break nor a stall
As expected no doubt, from an adequate failure
Nothing to add, nothing to see here
Perhaps in some way I can learn to accept
My place among millions— identities set
In being the mean with not much to say
Other than “good for you”, you’re the exception today.
I’ll wistfully stare at those who delight
Who make magic from nothing
Turn dark into light
I’ll hope for a change but, no change will come
For hoping is lost when what there is to win has been won
So instead I’ll stay and collect my exhales
Watching the world watching me fail
But, not quite fail, not quite hit the bottom
Just hover in space, forgettable, common
My own kind of purgatory
One with a door
I could let myself out
But then, what to wait for?
To admit I could change, is to admit that I haven’t
That I’ve given in to a breakable habit
So, what is it then? Am I inherently lacking?
Or is this just a trait, don’t look, stop asking
Either way is defeat, so why not avoid
Resign to the static, the endless white noise
Of course, I digress, and if you haven’t left
An end is in sight, to this waste of your breath
So, how to end this forgettable poem?
“oh well, at least I’ve got Netflix”.