It's All Been Done

Sometimes I feel like

Everything that can be felt, has been felt

Everything that can be written, has been written

Everything that can be done, has been done

And it fills me with despair, because there is nothing left to feel or write or do that is unique or authentic or 100% my own

All the people feeling and writing and doing those things are so much more than I am

More important, more interesting, more wanted, more whatever

I can't compete with them

Fortunately, I do not care to compete

So their relative importance means little to me

But the despair never goes away

And the feeling of pointlessness never leaves

Each day bringing more and more of the same

Even a crying whine-fest like this sad excuse for a "poem" seems like a thousand told tale

Told by baby after baby from ancient times to now and forever

On and on until the end of time

Those who care about such things and think about them will write words very similar to these

And it fills me with despair to think about that

Like thousands before me and hundreds of thousands that will come after

Despairing for reasons that exist only in the mind

But it is real despair

It is actual distress

It sucks

And it pisses me off too

All these other people daring to think and feel and write and do all those things

That should be me, shouldn't it?

And it fills me with despair