I sometimes like to think that I'm special,
I'd like to think that I have some kind of talent,
That my words can inspire,
And my thoughts are relatable.
That my smile and my laugh can brighten someone's day.
That maybe, just maybe I've helped someone, by being myself.
That something I did, might seem effortless for outsiders,
But secretly I've been practising my whole life.
That I've accomplished something in my life.
I'd like to think that I can do something for this world.
That someone will remember me even after my death, that I've left my mark.
Something other then using oxygen.
But then the bomb drops.
I'm out of my dream....
and I realise, I'm still little old me.
With nothing, but a brain filled with painful memories.
A bag filled with my salty tears and a throat that has,
I'm just a little spider....
in a world filled with large and beautiful butterflies.