Useless

Sometimes, I find myself sad, very sad,
to see my dreams turned into dust,
a primordial clay from which I was not born.

There are days I gravitate towards possibilities
that are not and will not be adequate,
a yearning to rediscover myself
in the being I long for, a distant desire.

I am dying, I want to let the world pass,
before it exhausts both of my cells.

Useless and weightless, the realization crashes:
I relied too much on abilities I lack.
I have cried out from afar, and I am not adequate.

Never fitting the conventional world,
yet unable to create a magical one either.
Here I rest from reality,
wanting to destroy myself in so little.

Moments arise when I wish to be like the dead,
though I know hope and desire still flicker,
a yearning for light to pierce through.