| I am rife with imperfection, riddled with insecurity, my ruse is self-confidence, my habit is popularity. My mind is unremarkable my talents are simply meagre, no genius, no brilliance, my mind possesses neither. For I am mere mortal and my flaws are all too apparent oh that I was satisfied with my own paltry talent. So is it just vulgar vanity to wish and to yearn, or is my aching ambition no cause for concern? I wish for so much, perhaps I should not, maybe I should be happy, give thanks for my lot. I am but a simple man and it pains me to put it so, For I am unremarkable, a light that is barely aglow. |