I could be a king, a billionaire, a Picasso,
a genius, a father, a lover,
but no here I lie on a couch,
high as a kite,
plans in my mind and rainbows in my eyes,
but when I write I am a fighter,
a genius,
a God,
a demon,
but it only reminds of what I'm not,
a brother,
a son,
a cousin,
Perhaps I am doomed to fail so others may blossom.
Doomed to sit at the bar alone,
with alcohol on my breathe and a beer in my hand.
Perhaps I am a symptom,
a sickness,
a cancer.
A disease that others weed out and destroy,
to make room for the flowers.
Maybe I'm the leaf that fell off the branch and blew away.
Maybe I don't exist.
Maybe I'm insane locked in an empty room mumbling,
Maybe it doesn't matter,
maybe I don't matter and maybe that's ok.

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