Maybe I'm not a spectacle. 
There's nothing here that is amazing, or astounding: 
I am not the best or brightest, 
Neither the strongest, the fastest, nor best to look at.  

Maybe this is not a historically significant place -- 
Nor a place of current interest or intrigue -- 
Not just the right thing 
At just the right time. 

In a world and an age full of grabbing, 
Whether of attention, or hair, or opportunity, or money, 
I am a being of releasing: 
Of letting go, of setting free. 

None may stop to view such a lack of drama, 
Indeed, I scarcely pay it much mind, myself -- 
Maybe I'm neither all I think I am, 
Nor as little as I fear I've done. 

Maybe I'm not a spectacle, 
But I can honestly be what I genuinely am: 
Used, homely, full of purpose, faulty of execution, 
Closer to the dust than to the cradle. 

For I am neither angel nor demon: 
A digital bard from an age of paper coupons, 
A song no one listens to anymore 
Although there are forty-five hundred versions available. 

There is a genuine you of sinew and heartbeat, 
There is an actual me of skin and breath, 
But without the right dash of cavalcade, 
Do we qualify for real existence?


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