It's like this -
I’m so very disappointed in me, for I am entirely nothing, but then I ought never to have expected anything other than this inevitable outcome. I’d meant to be so much more than this. I’d meant to be something
at least, anything
more than this sorry assemblage of failure & futility. I can’t say I’ve done anything I can have any pride in. I will leave nothing of any substance. All my efforts to be more than I am made from have been utterly pointless.
So many mistakes, so many vain senseless plans, so many failures. No escape from my rancid past, no ejector seat out of this putrid existence. No way to build something out of this zero that could ever become a hero. My hopes altogether dashed on the concrete paths of obscurity. My misdirected aspirations smashed, my dreams misappropriated into nightmares. And so, I am nothing.
Nothing whatever at all, blank, void, vacant, without a particle.
Absent, non‑resident, empty, nobody.
Not a soul ?
Truant, missing, deserted, the bird has flown.
Tenantless, devoid, minus, removed, exiled, elsewhere.
Misplaced, stayed away, nowhere to be found.
Rejected, discharged, omitted, forgotten.
Sent to coventry.
Brushed aside, bundled away, struck off the roll.
Murdered whilst sleeping.
Plucked from beneath our very noses.
Bereft of life.
A beggarly account of empty boxes.
Old mother Hubbards famous empty cupboards.
Scarce, cast off.
Good for nowt.
No, not here.
An Asstro-nought indeed…