what is it that makes you?
your winning ticket in the genetic lottery?
or the volume capacity of your brain?
what makes you so different from your eight billion
humans are such liars,
such jealous, fickle creatures.
you gloat in your non-existent eccentricities
take turns in claiming supremacy,
as if you’ve put in any real effort into it.
I can feel your anger from here.
go on, tell me then,
a talent you’ve polished so vigorously that it glows,
glows beyond the capacity of mere vision.
alas, no reply.
you’re all the same.
none of you are unique,
you’re all clones,
identical, and therefore pedestrian.
your talents are non-existent,
even you are non-existent.
you’ll fade after your insignificant earthly life.
and there’s nothing you can do about it.