Awfully


I write about clichés
For I merely am one.
Hopeless sixteen
With a fancy for romance
Living with the struggles
That everyone else has, too.
But does this make me feel better
Or more alone?
Like a drop in the bucket
Of fish in the sea
I am a mere repetition of someone else,
Just slightly different,
Like a defect of some
Perfect being
That I can never hope to be.
Within my imperfections
I am my own person.
And yet, why do I feel so alone?

Awfully

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