There is not a word—
an emotion, a phrase, a thought—
that is new
My life is one lived
in the deep and muddy footprints
of those who came before
They took up all the words
all the feelings and ideas
I find myself despairingly unable
to be original
Is this what it means
to be born so late in time?

I think
I often let this idea stop me
I think
that because I feel that every part of me
is the opposite of unique
I shouldn't write at all
I shouldn’t create at all
I shouldn’t dream at all
I let these thoughts
tell me I have no business
trailing like a trembling, lost puppy after those who came before
not only did they come first—
it’s undeniable that they were better
I cannot compare
Every thought
I sit here spewing out
(letting the words burn on their way up and out)
has been contemplated before
Even this feeling
is not solely my own

I have yet to decide
if this is a comfort
or the world’s most profound tragedy

I have the comfort of knowing
that I will never be alone
Everything I feel
has already been processed
by a million others
I could then
turn my words into a commentary
on the interconnectedness
of the human existence

But I have a feeling
that in my sorrowful state
that envy
pity
and gloom
will find their way into my words
and tell me
I am nothing
because I did not come first
in the race
that doesn’t exist